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JESSIE A. COLE 





DENVER, COLO: 

FRED W. WOOD & CO., PRINTERS. 

1SS5. 



PS 0.5^7 






ELEOTROTVPED BY JNO. CRESWCLL, DENVER. 



# 



4- 



In this preface, what shall I say? Shall I make excuses, 
and apologies, and at the same time try to force it upon the 
public, and curse that jury, if, after seeking its opinion, it 
should return a verdict of — guilty ? No ; I simply wish 
my neighbors to take a book to help me to get ray poems 
printed. The book itself is worth the price, so I won't feel 
that I have imposed upon anybody who is kind enough to 
buy one. At first, I thought to have them printed merely 
for distribution among my friends and relatives, and to satisfy 
my own desires; for since I had written my poems I dreaded 
the idea of throwing them away; too, I thought as Byron, 

'"Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print; 
A book's a book, although there's nothing in't." 

But now I place my book before you, and ask you to buy, 
and when they are placed before the public, they are public 
property ; I shall have nothing to say against whatever may 
be said of them, be the verdict what it may. Of course, I 
like my poems ; would destroy them if I didn't. I have 
written just as I think. Don't know how much my thoughts 
may change as I grow older. I said I have written just 
what I think, but I have not, for I haven't education enough 
to express my ideas just as I think them. What I have writ- 
ten is but the frame-work of my thoughts, without any orna- 
ments or decorations to make them beautiful. I have no 
idea of ever climbing up fame's height as far as Campbell, 
or Byron, or Burns. If I ever succeed in standing on a level 
with Longfellow, Whittier or Ella Wheeler, I am content; 
that's all I desire. Is there a human, or was there ever, 
since Shakespeare wrote, who, either secretly or openly, 



thought to e(jual liim? If so, their thoughts were, or are, as 
fruitless as ho who tliought or thinks to invent perpetual mo- 
tion. Yet how much less work there was for Shakespeare to 
compose all he did, than for a now-a-days writer to compose 
a few simple poems. He could write down any thought, and 
there was no doubting it's originality, for there were but few 
poets before him. A now-a-days writer may have just as 
high and original thoughts, but how can he, by what means, 
art or style of writing, prose or verse, express those thoughts 
so they are counted as original? He cannot, for every 
thought that man can express has been expressed in every 
style of writing. You might say, then let the writers stop 
writing, but that would not cool the fever. Now, when our 
poets write a poem, if sentimental, it is too gushy ; if common 
sense, too dry ; if it resembles another poem, it isn't original. 
What can we write that is neic f Nothing. Human nature 
is but human nature in all ages, and common sense but com- 
mon sense. There's nothing new, as Ella Wheeler says : 

"From the dawn of spring, till the year grows hoary. 

Nothing is new that is done or said. 
Tlie leaves are telling the same old story : 

'HudiUng, bursting, dying, dead.' 
And ever and always the wild birds chorus 

Is 'coming, building, flying, fled.' " 

So 'tis harder for writers of to-day to produce their little vol- 
ume than for Shakespeare or Homer to bring out their im- 
mortal works. We have no encouragement, for no matter how 
much time we might spend on a piece, or how good it might 
l)e, it is only counted as one of the echoes of the echo, etc. — 
So j)resent or future writers have no hope, for do their best, 
they are butc;dled one of the lesser tributary streams, for Ho- 
mer is the Lake Ita.ska, Shakespeare the Mississipjii, and all 
otluM' writers the leaser tributaries; and if I may some day be 
counted as one of these, I will be content. I will add, my 
pctems are as original as were I the first writer, except those 
pieces headed '"in imitation of" or "imitated after," etc. I 
am now ready to place my book before the public, and 
whatever their opinion of it may be, I shall be glad to hear it. 

J. A. C. 




Colorado Poems. 



Colorado, 

Denver, 

Three Visits to Manitou, 

Garden of the Gods, 

Monument Park, 

Cave of the Winds, - 

Ute Pass, 

Crystal Park, 

Pike's Peak, 

The Springs, 

Manitou, 

Skeleton and Ghost, 

Limpy, - 

An Amphibious Monster, 

Sackett's Baby Show, 

Saved by a Child, 

The Royal Gorge, 



Miscellaneous Poems. 



Dedication, - - - - 

My Dream, 

Lines to P^Ua Wheeler, 

Drunkards Would Then be Few, 

Ode to Thomas Moore s "Challenge," 

Why Do They Do So? 

The Heart we Cannot See, 

The United States, 

Life of President Garfield, 

To Susie E s, 

The Fair at Bismarck Grove, 
Burningof the Newhall Hotel, - 



CONTENTS. 



The Coeur D'Alene Craze, 

Lil"9's Seasons, 

The Haunted House, 

First Rose of Summer, - 

Love's Spring-Tlme, - 

Shakespeare's or Bacon's? 

A Tramp Among the Flowers, 



The Cart before the Horse, - - - - 63 

A Broken Life, ...----(« 

Fame, --------- 64 

A Thought, -------- H5 

Make Not the Sad Heart Gloomier, - - - . 65 

The Average Man, ------- 66 

A Sentimental Bouquet, - - - - - 67 

In the Swing, ...--- 68 
The Days of Old, ...... 

The Winged Insects, ------- 70 

Weep Not For Him But For Those, - - - - - 71 

An Old Man's Reverie, . - . - . - 73 

The Haunted Bridge at Midnight, - - - - - 75 

Fame Tower, (A Dream,) ------ 78 

We Could Form a Heaven Here, - - - - 8H 



Theatrical Poems. 

History of the Tabor Grand, ----- 85 

Theatrical Stars, -------- 90 

The Preacher Actor, ------- f(6 

Kate Claxton, ....---- sifi 

Emma Abbott and Valentine Fabrlnl, - - - - 98 

Two Pathetic Faces, - ------ loo 

A Bouquet Of Actresses, - - - . - - 101 

Impromptu to Marie Wainwrlght, - - - - - 150 

John Mc(;ullough, ------- 105 

Dead, yet not Dead, ----- - - 107 

Domestic and Other Poems. 

Fierce, yet Forbearing, - - - - - - - 109 

A Letter From the Old Folks, No. 1, - - - - - 110 

A Letter From the Old Folks, No. 2, - - - - - 114 

A Sentiment In Prose, ------ 115 

A Dainty Pig, -------- 117 

Exactly as It Is, - - - - - - - 118 



CONTENTS. 

School Days, -------- 120 

That Death Watch and Dream, ----- 123 

A Very Rare Case, - - - - - - - 125 

Dear Aunt Julia Brown, ------ 126 

I'm Deaf, ..-.--.. 127 

The Roots of My Tree Extend There, - - - - 130 

Brother Dolph, -------- 130 

Too Sentimental, ------- 131 

Only a Dirty Dish Rag, -.----- 132 

To My Little Niece, Myrtle Ruth, - - - - . 133 

My, Scrap Book, ....... 134 

A Letter to Maud, ------- 135 

ZELINDA, A Dramatic Poem, - - - - - 139 

Additional Pieces. 

Cherry Creek, --.----- 193 

Mrs. A. Jacobs' Advice, ------ 194 

Shakespearlan-Baconian-Burtonian, - - - - - 195 

Pope and Poe— Cole and Coe. ----- 196 

ISZORIA PAINE, ..-.--- 201 



C®t©MA®0 :• F#MMS. 



COLORADO. 



Though the youugest State of Uncle Sam's, 

It keeps up with the rest ; 
And is ahead of soiiie of them. 

Its climate's the very best. 

- *Si''' " 
The healthiest State of all the Union ; 

Its air is bracing and pure, 
And 'mong its mountains there's some of 

Nature's grandest architecture. 
Colorado has poured into the world's currency, 

Over $100,000,000, in silver and gold ; 
Its mines embrace lead, copper, iron, coal, 

And Heaven only knows what they yet hold ! 
Here poor men have, in a short time, 

Been made Bonanza Kings ; 
Here invalids have been restored to health 

By ils bracing air and mineral springs. 

Too, besides its being a land for health, 
And besides all its mineral Avealth, 

Colorado holds out a promising reward for 
The farmer and the stock-grower, 

September 28, 1884. 



COLORADO POEMS. 



DENVER. 



Thiuk ! twenty six years ago all this land 

Was a plain, all uncultivated, 
Where now with its blocks and dwellings grand, 

And }3eoj)le ambitious, — Denver's situated. 

Where now are blue-grass and flowery yards, 
There was then tough grass and little hollows; 

Where now are shady streets and boulevards. 
Was then the plain, with its buifalo wallows. 

Now there's no buffalo to be seen here ; 

The deer and coyotes are seen here no more ; 
Nor the Indians, — but they have been here, 

This ground they've traveled o'er and o'er. 

Ere for Denver was selected this ground, 

'Twas said a man, (and none thought him a fool,) 

Who owned all the land here around, 
Traded it for a |)air of Ingots and a mule. 

lint now, if any one man owned Denver's land. 
And if he was half way shar-p or witty, 

He wouldn't trade for all Colorado's mules and 
All of the lH)ots of Boston City. 

Denver's inhabitants are seventy thousand up to date 
The largest, thriftiest city of Colorado, 

And the capital of the State 

And county sent of the county of Arapahoe. 



COLORADO POKMS. 

Its buildings that're very fine and attractive are 
The Court House, Union Depot and City Hall; 

And one that's ne'er been excelled very far 
Is Tabor's Grand Opera House, if excelled atall. 

Aud our exposition building is grand, indeed; 

There we have a mining and industrial display; 
And the U. S. Custom House and P. O. which we 
Is now under full head-way, [need, 

When that's done, and our Capitol's erected. 
All the public buildings we need we'll have. 

Will we fail, with these buildings projected? 
No; what Queen Denver needs she'll have. 

We have at present seven railroads, 

Round-houses, foundries and glass works ; 

Smelters turning out minerals by the car-loads. 
And water works, electric light and gas works. 

Schools, — well, how many I couldn't say; 

And convents, churches, asylums and so on, 
Jails for those whom the laws disobey, 

For some are bound to do wrong. 

The police, they're well up in their line. 

True ladies and gentlemen we can boast of many, 
And our merchants and lawyers are finest of fine. 

But of Dudes, — we havn't hardly any. 

There's our Academy of Music and dancing 

[academies. 

Swimming parks and roller skating rinks; 
Amusement places for everyone and every size. 

From the deep thinkers to the 'Captain Jinks.' 



OOLOJiA DO POEAfS. 

We have many heavy capital led banks, and 
Residences that're palaces, inside and out. 

Our parks, we own, are not very grand. 
But we'll have better some day, no doubt. 

We are, well, almost surrounded by 
Small yet boatable lakes, and clear, 

Just beyond the city's suburbs they lie, 
And there's sport for the fishers here. 

Our race tracks rank among the finest, tiiey say. 
And our street roads are fine as can be ; 

Some're miles long, like a floor all the way, 
But, then, more dust'n we want, have we. 

But where's the town or city so perfect 

That they've no faults, not one ? 
Everything that is has its defect. 

But being honest, our imperfections we own. 

Denver can boast of many fine hotels, 

And livery stables, and fleet-footed steeds, 

And, 'tis dotted here and therewith Artesian wells; 
We have about all any city needs. 

The wliites, the blacks, and all kinds of people, 

The almost faultless, some with cowardly faults ; 
Some minds above others, as 'hove the church is 

[the steeple ; 
And we have our cemeteries, with monuments and 

[vaults. 

For though we're full of ambition and pride, 
We remember, as others, we're sons of clay, 

And for when we must fall and lay side by side, 
We've ])reiiared a spot where our IxxHes may lay. 




A Glimpse of Manitou Dad Pike's Peak. 



Id f'OLORADO POEMS. 

can I'uUy comprehend— or, that is, so that thatonecan form a correct idea oC 
the scenery at Manitou and many others of Colorado, ere he sees them, must 
be either an artist in words or a fool I'm neither of those, and yet as I have 
already written a few riiymes on those scenes, I'll give them a place in my 
book. 

I. 
(jAltDKX OF THE (JoDS. 

About cio-lity milt's from Denver's .-jitunted Manitou, 

Just far enough for a splendid pleasure trij» to go. 

I iiave visit(;d it just three times, 

And to-day, thinks 1, I'll compose a few rhymes 

On the scenes around there, — at least I'll try 

To describe a few most pleasing to the eye. 

It takes about three days all the sights to see. 

And till they see them, none should satisfied be, 

For they are really wonderful, amazing, — 

It .seems one could never tire of gazing 

At those peculiar picturesque scenes around there; 

Some of them are counted as earth's most i-are. 

Should von travel the world over, you could'nt tind 

Any natural scenes more attractive to eye and mind 

Than those around Manitou, — or at all odds. 

None more peculiar'n tho.se in the Garden of the (xods. 

Ou entering this Garden the first sight you will see 

The great curious "Balancing Rock" will be. 

Then you'll go a long way on a road of red soil and .>^aud, 

Ere you come to the other scenes, pe(uiliar and grand. 

The next scene, "Tlu; Irish Washwoman" is its name. 

You will just wonder how that rock ever came 

So perfectly formed; there she stands by her tub. 




On entering this Garden, the sight you will see, 
The great curious Balancing Rock will be. 

—Page 10. 



COLORADO POEMS. 

Then in liis irarden God has made a gate-way, 

And to deseriUe it I will begin straightway. 

On either side of this great open gate 

Are rocks, whieh to see them do the soul elate. 

Tiien, when through this gateway you have passed, 

You are in the "Px;ho Hall" at last. 

And that consists of a long narrow hall, 

Enclosed on either side by a natural stone wall, 

And its ceiling appears to be the sky, 

For nothing else 'bove those rocks can the eye 

See. Of every loud spoken word you'll hear an echo. 

Witli "Echo Hall" you'll be pleased, I know. 

As passing through the gate or a little on the other side, 

Between two rocks there is a "Devils Slide;" 

It is but a stecj), narrow, slijipt-ry path of stone. 

And it's not very beautiful, I own. 

Tiien next is "Glen Eyrie," it calls much attention. 

There's one curiosity, more particularly to mention; — 

Its more attractive than the other scenes, and so 

I more particularly speak of it, — "Major Domo." 

And the "Rift in the Rocks," its attractive quite. 

It is considered by many as a real sight. 

II. 

MoNUMKNT Park. 

"Monument Park" from Manitou isn't far; 

There's some queer sights there, or two of them are. 

"Ute's Medicinal Monument" is curious, — still 

I think the otiier mor<> })eculiar, — the "Vuknn's Anvil." 




Ute's Medicinal Monument is curious— still, 
I think the other more peculiar— the Vulcan's Anvil. 
—Page 12. 



CO LOR A DO POEMS. 

Wlu^ii its mouth you reach, ])av oue dollar each, 

For that is the admission in, 
They'll furnish you a fri,t»;ht of a cloak and a lijrht, 

Then to show you around they'll beo;in. 
You mustn't wear any n'w.e clothes in there, 

For you will i:;et them soiled. 
If vou wear your hat I can tell you that 

T'will he just utterly spoiled. 
In this curious ( 'a ve a (candle you have 

T(» cai-ry; for if you think 
That in there it's light, you're mistaken quite — 

For it is as dark as ink. 
Then follow your guide, keej) close hy his side, 

Be careful lest you'll fall. 
There's not much to see in rooms one, two and three, 

But elimb the ladders narrow and tall. 

Then to the next climb; you'll think it more sublime 

Than tlie oue you just came through; 
And so you keep on, more I'urious is each one, 

'Till "Canopy Hall" you come to. 
The largest room of all is this "Canoi)y Hall" 

And delighted with it you'll be; 
It is lit up briiii;ht with a large head-light, 

So the sights vou can j)lainly see. 
Then when through gazing at tlie sights amazing. 

Turn and follow your guide, 
And presently you "Broad-Way" will come to, 

P>ut v<.u'll find its not vcrv irirJc 



COLORADO POEMS 

It's awfully narrow, and your feelings 'twill harrow ! 

Now I can tell you that ; 
'Less you go with care, you'll get wedged in there, 

That's if you chance to be fat. 
Climbing the ladders on you go, till finally — lo! 

The "Music Hall" you'll enter. 
And you'll think it so grand, perhaps you'll stand 

For some moments in the center. 
This "Petrified Waterfall" is most astonishing of all, 

There's where the music is made; 
It sends forth a tone something like a xylophone, 

When struck with — say a knife blade. 
The way it's petrified or froze is in two rows 

Of icicle-like keys. 
The music is so clear and })leasing to the ear, 

Wheneyer you strike on these. 
Then the guide follovy, you'll pass through a hollow 

And up more ladders climb, 
Presently you come to a place to crawl througli; 

If tall, you'll haye a hard time. 
It's "Tall Man's Dread" — so look out for your head; 

If you ^vant to get through all right, 
On your hands and knees fall, after the guide crawl, 

And hold fast to your light. 
When this you've done, and your way you've won, 

Into the next hall or room, 
You'll come to a steep hole, and 'pon my soul. 

It is a scene of gloom. 



10 COLOHADO IHJEMS. 

Then go on your way, and the "Devil's Buttery" 

(1 believe that is its name) 
Is the next scene you'll see, and just believe me. 

You won't think much of the same. 
When you climb three or four ladders more, 

In the "Bridal Chamber" you'll be; 
There sits the "Bride" and 'round on every side 

Are crystal draperies wonderful to see. 
Well 'tvvill make you smile to see the style, — 

And how beautifully she's decked 
With many a glistning stone; she sits there alone, 

Waiting for her "Hub" I expect. 
A long white veil falls down o'er her trail, 

Her dress' color is cream; 
In her room draped with white, yet dark as night, 

She sits like one in a dream. 
Yes, there's something more. Notice the floor 

Is couiposed of stones like shells. 
They're dazzling bright, I don't know but they might 

Be tlie real genuine costly opals. 
They're quartz some say, while others say nay. 

They're opals of the finest grade, 
But whatever they be, they're nice enough to see. 

Especially for what you've paid. 
You can go no further, for rooms there're no more; 

This chamber's at the far end 
Of this curious cave, and so you will have 

Your wav to its mouth to wend. 



COLORADO POEMS 17 

So youi' guide with yon back ao;ain, through 

All the rooms in which you've been. 
If you hurt your head in "Tall Mau's Dread" 

You'll curse all the sights you've seen. 
So be careful there, go through with care ! 

When your way to its mouth you've won, 
I know beyond doubt that when you c(»me out 

You 11 say you never had more fun. 
And then if you want, you can take a jaunt 

Way up on the top, too, 
Of this delightful Cave, and there you'll have 

Of the surrounding country a view. 
You can see all over, and if you're a lover 

Of poetical romance, why 
Your soul 'twill exhalt, while so near th(^ vault 

Of the blue ethereal sky! 
Cheyenne ('anon you can see, but not very plainly ; 

And Pike's Peak and Manitou. 
From falling you can hardly kee|), as looking down the 

[dizzy steep 

Into Williams Canon below. 

Of trees a few twigs and of grass a few sprigs 

You'll gather, at least so did I ; 
Because, you know, this place ])leased me so, 
. I wanted something to remember it by. 
When tired, then back to the Cave's mouth again, 

And down the narrow trail go; 
Whon this you've done, go through Williams Canon 

Back again to Manitou. 



f'OLOJiA DO POE.US. 

A small stream runs through the Park; 

And on its banks and in it, 
Of (crystal stones you can find a few — 

Perhaps one a minute. 
This Park's almost ahove timber line; 

The air's very j)ure and lioht. 
The peaks of the lofty mountain above it, 

Are always capped with white. 
Not much more eou/<J be said 

Of Crystal Park, though may be it 
Is attractive to others, for many 
(to up the steep way to see it. 
VI. 
Pike's Peak. 
1 must not neglect of this noted place to speak. 
One of the highest points of the Rockies — Pike's Peak. 
^'A mighty mount., <m<l iiieii declare 
That it h'Jdn *i (/olden treasure rare.'' 

Tjike H great grand-sire with hoary hair, 
It watches o'er the mounts around it there. 
At sunset it wears a crown of gold. 
As did our mighty monarchs of old. 

Ages — yes, yes, eternal ages it has seen ! 

Perhaps ere man was created it long had been. 

Forever and ever it stands in one place; 

It has known of people each different race 

That hav<' dwelt in this country, the white, the red. 

And all races it mav know, this Peak with lioarv head. 



COLORADO POEMS. 2: 

It watches us proud humans passing, passing away. 

And tliere 'twill stand and watch perhaps eternally. 

There this peak forever crowned with snow, 

Looks down on its brother mounts below. 

Like great Cffisar it rears its haughty crest. 

It occupies the highest seat and frowns upon the rest. 

Perhaps't laughs in its sleeve as't watches day by day. 

And sees us playing our part in life's play. 

In comparison with this mighty height 

We are to it, like to us is the mite ! 

I haven't reached its summit yet, but next time I go 

To visit young Saratoga or Manitou, 

I intend the first thing to go up there 

And see what I can, and get some fresh air. 

Some say all you can see there's sky and snow. 
And others that you can see the plains below. 
So one party or the other's trying to deceive 
When I see't then I'll know which to believe. 
Some speak of it one way and some another. 
Few say they can see from one side to the other 
Of the world. It looks flat, and the skies 
Look like a glass globe of tremendous size 
Shutting down over this great world of ours. 
Just as we place a globe over wax flowers. 
Now who knows but what that's how it is ? 
The Almighty's made us, we're playthings of His. 

Perhaps we're His ornaments, gracious, we don't know 
But what we're in a globe sitting on His piano ! 



IJke Bi'liuorc's 'Mittlt- world," a work (»f liuiiuin iirt. 

When he sets tliciu iiuoiiin-, they each enact tiieir part. 

So we are (iod's oruameiit — "little world" — no doubt, 

When tired of one of us, why He takes us out; 

He wouldn't want to destroy His work — that'd he a sir 

So when He takes one out He jnits a new one in. 

And so he keeps His "little world" ai'oino;. 

Perhaps He runs it by steam, no knowing. 

AMien He takes us out perhaj)s He throws us away. 

Possibly nioidd us over into angels He may. 

For He'd need sonie angels to drive out the gloom ; 

Too He'd want some little devils in His room. 

So I s'pose He moulds us over just to suit His taste. 

For perhaj)s he don't want any material to waste. 

But howe'er life is reality, or a dream. 

Whether we're as we think, or toys run by steam; 

Howe'er it be, it makes no differance to me — 

If we are tovs, we can tidnk we are reality. 

Each s])eak of this Peak differently, — none agree. 

So Pm going to its summit to see what I can see. 

The air there's hard on lungs, but I can stand it once. 

Who'd want to go there more'n that would be a dnnce. 

VII. 
Thf. Spkinos. 

Then there'rc three noted sprinu' at Manitou; 
There's not nuich to describe about them though. 
Many people go there who're at leisure and wealthy. 
To drink of their watei-, for thev sav it's so healthv. 



COLORADO POEMS. 

The springs are iron, soda, and sulphur. 
Most people the iron to the others prefer. 

VIII. 

Manitou. 

At the base of Pike's Peak, in a beautiful valley, 

Manitou Springs is situated. 
In the center of a circle of the finest scenery 

Which has much sensation created. 

It can boast of several fine hotels. 

And fine residents a few. 
Several livery stables, drug stores, groceries. 

And it has its churches, too. 
A fine place to visit, especially in summer; 

It's just delightful then. 
I've only been there three times, l)ut intend 

To visit it many times again. 



SKELETON AND GHOST. 



A boarding house at No. 2t)7 South Fifteenth Street was said to be haun- 
ted, and ever since the owner, Dr Williamson, had deserted it, no family 
lived there more than a month, for they declared they saw and heard ghosts. 
Finally, Mrs. Ferry moved there and kept a boarding-house. One day, she 
and her two daughters were paid a visit by a ghost, (so they said,) and imme- 
diately after a skeleton was found in the cellar. At any rate, whether the 
ghost part was reality ornot. a skeleton was found there, and they declare 
the discovery was made by obeying the commands of a "sJDook." 



This morning as I and my two daughters 
Were chatting at the breakfast tabic alone, 

(For the meal was over and the boarders 
For sometime had been s::one) 



<i>L()liM>(i I'OEMS. 

We were stjirtlcd hy the preseuce of a man 

VVlicre he came from we didn't know, 
For we liad fastened all the doors 

And fonnd tliev vet were so. 
But tliere lie stood five feet from us, 

His eyes woi'c a juhastly j^lare; 
Our hair seemed standing; on end ; 

Kaeh wci'e riveted to the chair. 

We knew 'twas the ghost which for some time 
Had heeu said the house to haunt. 

And after two or three attempts I said 
"Well, sir, what do you want?" 

"I want you ladies to take care (»f my body 

Which now in the cellar lies." 
W'e were spell-bound, were we craz}'? 

( 'ould \ve believe our cars and eyes? 

Then he vanished in an instant 

Ere another breath we drew 
Where did it go, or how? 'Twas g;oiie. 

N'anishcd like a dissolving; view ! 
The whatever it was, was goue. 

It didn't seem to go tiiroug;h the floor; 
Xor the wall or the windows, 

Xor yet out of the door. 
Then Lou said "Let's go into the cellar 

And see if there's a skeleton there, do!" 
Kinally we nuistered up courag;e, and went, 

Though I confess we hardlv dared to. 



COLORAJHJ POEMS. 

We kuew 'twas with rubbish stored, 

Though we'd never yet been in it. 
Lou persisted '^if we're going to search 

We might as well begin it." 
So we went. The rain of the night before 

We found had made it very damp. 
Lou entered first, then my other daughter, 

And I followed, carrying a lamp. 
Lou had armed herself with a garden hoe. 

With it she began prodding around, 
And laughed at the idea of obeying a spook, 

But presently the body we found. 
'Twas in the far corner under the parlor, 

In a box that was almost square, 
(jood heavens! we hadn't the slightest idea 

Of finding a skeleton there. 
Immediately we sent for Coroner McHatton 

And |:)resently that gentleman came, 
And the skeleton was taken to McGovern's, 

And visited bv Iiundi"eds was the same. 



Oct. 0, '81 



LIMPY. 



"No daudy dog poor Rover was, 

So sleek and fair to see ; 
No ears of beauty graced his liead, 

No dainty Umbs had he."— Matt h in x Ban: 

There is a little lame tramp dog 

Can be seen most any day; 
On Sixteenth between Lawrence and Cur<"is, 

He seems inclined to stav. 



He's a cross and homely little do^-, 

About ten inches in height; 
In length al)ont a I'oot and a half". 

And so old he's turning white. 

Long has this portion of Sixteenth street 

Been Liaipv's only home, 
And scarcely more than two blocks away 

Has he been known to roam. 
He belongs to none, he's a real tramp; 

Yet it can be truly said 
That Limpy fairs better'n huuian tramps 

For he is always well ted. 

It has been noticed that this dog 

At meal time, especially noon, 
Has been accustomed to enter restaurants, 

Never too late, neither too soon. 
He goes to one and then to another; 

Limpy knows what he's about, 
And so morning, noon and night, 

He gets a liliei-al hand-out. 
He will never notice another dog. 

And he smiles on no men I 
He frowns 'pon the children, too. 

But is fond of well dres.sed women. 
'Mong women he gained many friends 

In this last year or so; 
But wore no collar: and into the pound 

Dog-catchers him did throw. 
That was last S|)riiio-. and wlu'n 



COLORADO POEMS. 

A uotice ill the papers said 
"Tramp Limpy will be killed to-morrow, 

CJuless his license is paid," 
The women, the ones admired of him, 

Paid the city the required sura. 
For him a license-collar to procure, 

And Limpy was given his freedom. 

And now this little lame tramp dog 
Can be seen most any day. 

On Sixteenth between Lawrence and Curtis- 
He seems inclined to stay. 

And indeed the stylish dressy ladies 
Feel complimented, they do, 

When this little judge-of-line-dress, 
Follows them a block or two. 



Sept-. : 



AN AMPHIBIOUS MONSTER. 



I composed this piece from a column in the Republicmi that first ap- 
peared in the LeadviUe Democrat, June zl, 18S4. Whether truth or not I don't 
linovv. "The little settlement in the vicinity of Twin Lakes, and particu- 
larly the people who live directly on the margin of those remarkable bodies 
of water, were thrown into intense excitement yesterday, by a startling and 
extrordinary event. Planted on the crest of the range by some marvelous 
freak of Nature, that has puzzled every geologist since their discovery, with- 
out a known outlet large enough to account for tlicii- limpi^l clearness and 
purity; of unknown depth and unexplored subterranean < on i our, these lakes 
themselves are a mystery so profound, that one nm unnaturally looks for 
the strange and abnormal in connection with tlieni. such has come to pass." 



James Powell, a miner and prospector, 
And other parties take 
Their fishing poles, and so, 
Laughing and talking they go, 
He and the others to the shore 
Of the lower Twin Lake. 



for.oh'AlHt l-OKMS. 

When, lo! an unusual coiuniotiou 
Their attention attracted. 
In the water, beyond doubt, 
Several hundred yards out, 
Was a monster of the ocean, 
By the way it acted. 
And tlicy looivcd and were a|>])alled 
And bewildered to see 
A o-ioantif! head rise, 
With dark round eyes; 
.\ colossal serpent it might be called. 

Skin smooth as could be. 
The head was long and jDointed, 
And in color dull olive; 
The body was of a diameter 
Large as the head or larger. 
It ojMMied its mouth and their nerves unjointed. 
This's the description they all give. 

The p(»rtion above the water was 
Writhed and very sinuous 
Now straight, now curved, 
As it swam and swerved, 
Like cverv kind of a serpent does. 

It shortly reached the center thus. 

Then its head the monster turned 

From side to side. 

While a hundred feet therefrom 

The watei- was in a foam. 

That 'twas by its tail thus chunied 

Thcv were satistied. 



COLORADO POEMS. 

Then its neck higher it reared, 

About twenty or twenty- one 
Feet 'bove water at most, 
Then to sight it was lost, 
'Neath the foaming water it disappeared, 
The amphibious monster — gone! 



April 15, 1885. 



SACKETT'S BABY SHOW. 



Every father and mother in Denver should go 

And visit Sackett's amusing baby show, 

And see those pretty little dears; 

Some cooing and laughing, some in tears. 

Some very fat, some medium, some poor. 

And to see them all 'tis amusing sure. 

Some with their little feet all bare, 

Some with black, some Avith golden hair; 

Some with black and some with blue eyes; 

They are all there to win a prize. 

Fird prize for beauty and parents're waiting to see 

Which the chosen beauty will be. 

Who don't love children have a hard heart, 

The sooner the better 'tis with their life to part. 

What would earth be without children, pray? 

Isn't Heaveu thronged with such as they ? 

Oh, happy golden days of childhood ! 

That we could live them o'er again, we would; 

But alas when they're gone it is forever. 

Till those happy days are past we prize them never. 



COLOHAIX) FOKMS 



Wliat's swect'T tluiii ;i lovely cliikl, 

'* With bounding foot steps wild,'^ 

And eves spiirlcliiiL!: like tlie dewdrops shine? 

There innocence, beanty and trne joy combine. 

When I was a child, mother says, 

That just full of mischief I was. 

Of one little act she's often to me told; 

A piece of mischief I did when three years old. 

She missed iier knives an<l forks, \v*here they went she 

[ couldn't tell. 
One day she spied me throwing something; in the well. 
I'd thrown those in and all kinds of trash. 
At last I threw the cat in to hear her splash. 

Ma (tame runnino; to see what I had done. 
Said I, ''tome hurry mama and see ze fun ! — 
Oh, mama, aint it fun to see kitty pash !" 
There ma saw the drowniny; cat, sticks and trash. 

But before the cat did quite drown, 

Ma got a long board and thrust it down. 

The cat came uj), — I caught her quick's a flash; 

Was going to throw her in again to hear her splash. 

Oh, I love children so well, and so 

I visit nearly every day the baby show. 

To see those pretty little dears, 

Some cooing and laughing, some in tears. 

I'll say no more about them, but advise you 

To go and give for them a vote or two. 

Yes, every father and mother should go 

And visit Sackett's amusing baby show. 

July, WKA. 



COLORADO POEMS. 

SAVED BY A CHILD. 



"Why don't oo det up?" said a blue eyed maiden, 

''Oo shouldn't lay there no more. 
Det up, det up!" said the lovely little creature 

Of summers only four. 

Her golden ringlets were blown hither and thither 

By the wanton breeze ; 
Heaven's self shone in her eyes as she said 

"Det up, I's fraid oo'll feeze." 

The person who was lying before her was a taU and weU built man. He 
hiy there on the ground in a state of partial intoxication. 

He turned on his side and looked at the child 

As though he was amazed. 
"Why get up, little fairy?" was what he said, 

As at the child he gazed. 

At the same time rising to a sitting posture, 

And gently touching her hand, 
As if too holy to be contaminated by his fingers. 

Said, "Fairy of the cherub band, 

Why should I get up?" "Touse oo'll det told 

And bears might eat oo. 
Mama'd like oo to tome home wis me and have 

Somesing to eat and dwink, too." 

"Your mother lives in that cottage yonder?" 

The little one nodded her head. 
And straight to the door-way of her home 

This strange man she led. 



32 ('OLOHAVO POEMli. 

"Mama, dis man is weal sick and told 

And needs somesing to eat ; 
Pease dive him somesing, mama," she pleaded. 

In her childish way so sweet. 
"He aint dot no home, and he is so sick ; 

And he aint dot no bed. 
Div him tome hot toifee, and tome meat, 

And nice piece of bwead." 

Not without some hesitation the lady acceded to her child's wishes. He 
as hesitatingly accepted the invitution to enter the house. 

"Madam, I hope yon will |)ardon this intrusion ; 

I coidd not but choose 
To accept the solicitations of your daughter. 

At first I thought to refuse. — 
Her winsome manner and something I can't explain, 

Impelled me to what I fear 
You'll consider rashness. This is the first home 

I've entered for more than a year. 
Born in an eastern town, with a restless spirit 

I was early possessed. 
In a quarrel I severely wounded a companion, 

Then ran away, out West. 

Then he went on to tell about his past life, and how at last he found his 
way to Denver. 

Probably had I not met your little daughter 

I would in a fit of remorse. 
Have shortly made way with my miserable self, 

Yet as it is — of course 
There's nothing for me to live for," said he, 

And drew several deep sighs. 



COLORADO POEMS. 



During his narrative, not once to its conclusion 

Left his face the lady's eyes. 
Then she di-ew nearer and asked the names 

Of his sisters and mother. 
Imagine her great surprise 'pon learning that 

This outcast is her only brother! 
He had been mourned as dead for years, 

But had wandered far and wide. 
Thinking he was the murderer of his companion, 

But his friend had not died. 
Was now his sister's husband, and father 

Of the lovely little one 
Who'd been the means of him finding a home 

And of this happy reunion. 
After years of Avandering, and as he was growing 

More and more defiled 
He found a home and friends at last. — 

Was saved by a child ! 

Jan. 19, '84. 

THE ROYAL GORGE. 



The Royal Gorge of the Grand Canon of the Arkansas! 

Truly a Royal Gorge it is. Those mighty walls of rock 

Rise hundreds of feet almost perpendicular, 

And these are the lofty banks of the Arkansas River. 

This Gorge is, as well as one of nature's grand sceneries, 

Both beautful and romantic. 

Now and then, as looking towards the top 

Of those river-walls gigantic. 



COLOR A DO POKMS. 

You'll see a lovely flower fi;ro\viiig out 

Of the rock's mossy breast, 

Or a beautiful wild bird startled from its nest. 

The Royal Gorge, most rightly named. 

One of Natu^^s sceneries far renowned. 

Like royal Kings those walls frown 'pon us, 

And their heads by the sky are crowned. 

The Arkansas River is generally placid, ^. 

Only where its bed sudenly lowers, 

Or a rock lies athwart't to hinder its passage; 

There its water leaps and roars. 

No matter how large the rock may be. 

That man or nature throws 

Across its narrow bed to hinder it. 

It still onward, onward flows. 

Ever and ever flowing swiftly onward, 

Urged, or pushed forward by the young 

Or waters fresh from the source-spring; 

Each wave hurrying onward to the sea. 

As we are hurrying onward to eternity. 

Each new wave comes gliding onward, 

Rushing, rippliny: and leaping o'er 

Such provoking rocks that lie in their way, 

As the preceding waves have crossed before. 

Through the Gorge and valleys the Arkansas 

Flows on from day to day, 

As it has flowed and may yet flow, 

Till the Whole crumbles awav. 




The Royal Gorge. 



ISCKM,AKIS©US -^ p0BliSa 



To one of the noblest men in Denver these Miscellaneous Poems are sincerely 
respectfully inscribed. 



Friend John, accept this group of rhymes, 

As a token of respect and esteem. 
There's nothing but that's been written a thousand times, 

Of which a human could dream. 
And yet writers are writing, and ever will write, 

Till the Great Play draws to its close. 
Each cudgels his brains, thinking "Now I might 

Find a brand new subject, who knows?" 
7 am one of the victims on that rough road. 

I've written, — am writing still ; 
I have used of paper, a full wagon load, 

The ink a barrel would fill; 
Yet all this. trying has availed to naught, 

No new subject have I found yet; 
I've studied and studied and thought and thought, 

But no spirit's brought me one 'round yet. 
The flowers bloom now as long ago they bloomed. 

The trees grew, and all other things. 
We're doomed the same's our fathers were doomed; 

Rolling time nothing really new brings. 



MISCEL L A XEO US POEMS. 

So John, though I've Written nothing that's new, 
I have tried. And as a token of esteem, 

I inscribe my best group of poems to you ; 

And will head them with — My Dream. 



MY DREAM. 

"I saw a vision in my sleep 

That gave my spirit strengtli to sweep 

Adown the gulf of time ! 
I saw the last of iiuman mould 
That shall creation's death behold 

As Adam saw her ^runeV —Cumphell. 

This was my dream. I far above the universe did seem 
to be, where, I did not know, (whether 'mong the clouds, in 
the moon or stars,) or what \ was, whether a living body, 
spirit or departed soul. But whatever I was, a living l)ody or 
sprite, about all that was going on I knew; and all the world 
I eould view, but was not satisfied. I gazed 'pon each being 
that died, to see where tiieir vital spark went to, but though 
I exerted all my powers to find out. it went to nothingness so 
far's I could discern ; as it was l^efore it was joined with life. 
As before a flame is kindled, what is it? Nothing. Or, if 
something, it is beyond humati science to detect what or 
where it is; but with a slight eifort the flame is flaming, 
ready to consume the greatest works of man, melt ii"on, or to 
send forth its light to guide us through the darkness. Mighty 
in its heat and sparkling splendor. It is certainly something 
then, but how easily quenched is that bright flame. A breath 
too heavy or a little water — it is out, all its heat and bright- 
ness gone; a little smoke, and nothing remains of what was. 

So, as the whereabouts of the soul were not for me to 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 37 

know, I tried to content myself with studying; humanity and 
tracing it to its end. 

Humanity at this juncture had traveled over about half, 
yes, more than half the allotted distance of its journey to its 
earthly end. The world Avas now almost overrun with the 
effects of human science; hundreds of inventions more than 
could be used, and still the inventors were invontino;; hun- 
dreds of books more than Avei'e read, still the writers were 
writing. Many religions existed, churches were built by 
some and torn down by others. Christains and infidels were 
at war, each was right, yet which was right? Democrats and 
republicans were wrangling, and republics and monarchies. 

Humanity lawing with humanity, their case decided by a 
humanity judge and jury. (As authors write their books, ex- 
press their thoughts on the hereafter and we praise or dis- 
praise their works; Shakespenre, our looked up to sun of hu- 
man knowledge, may be no nearer right in his views on the 
after-death subject, or any other subject, than the poorest 
scribbler. No judge but humanity has told us so.) Humanity 
fashioning a heaven for themselves to their own liking and 
seconded by humanity. Scientists were now making a 
study of the mysteri(nis, trying to search out God, for their 
sentimental little pates were weary of fashioning things for 
earth, too their skill was pretty well exhausted in that line. 

But their searching for God ]iroved a failure. 

(And why should we try to pry into the mysteries of other 
spheres when we cannot solve half the mysteries of this?) 

The past generations were mouldering in their graves. 

The living would look down on their dead brothers' graves 
and preach that though the body slumbered here, the spirit 



38 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

was dwelling in another sphere, to which the rest would say 
"amen." Grave-yards had spread to an enormous size and 
still were^ spreading, people constantly dying and being born 
to die. Years passed, it seemed. Now the world was almost 
entirely one vast cemetery, for many were the mouldering 
dead. Few were the living; the reason of this was, humanity 
had grown so sentimentally wise, they saw the folly of bear- 
ing children to live, toil and weep, — and what for? For being 
a living form of dust till they return to dead dust. 

For that was as far as science could trace it. If there were 
a Heaven, God, they thought, to save his world from oblivion, 
would have shown them it, and they would have endured all 
the trials of life that their souls might live in bliss. 

But, as 'twere, they were believers in, and were practicing 
what their most beloved poet Byron preached : — 

"Count o'er the joys thine hours have seen, 

Count o"er thy days from anguish free, 
And know wliatever thou hast been 

'Tis something better not to be." 

So they grew so sentimental that the children they brought 
forth were few, and those that were were mostly writers 
striving for immortality, (for it is the one desire of humanity 
to be immortal, and since they cannot determine whether or 
not spirits live they wish to make sure of an earthly immor- 
tality at least; they fear if they make no mark in this world 
they might not get the chance to make it elsewhere,) and the 
books of the past generations were full five hundred to each 
several reader, still these writers were overtaxing their brains 
to find a subject that not more than a thousand had written 
on. In the ancient days there was but one poet to a 
generation, now all were seeking to be famous. 



MISCEl.LAyEOUS POh'MS. 3» 

Thus humanity grew less and less 'till it dwindled to its 
close. The last surviving human was a poet, and as he 
looked 'round on the world of dead mortals and knew that 
when he expired the whole human family was sunk into 
oblivion, oh, how wildly he clung to life, how he writhed 
with agony to behold the peopleless world ! and, oh, grandly 
sublime were the poems he wrote as he sat there pondering 
on what had been and thinking of what must be. He com- 
posed with great earnestness; I laughed, and thought: poor 
fool, why trouble your head to write, who will the readers be? 
Yet I felt ashamed of ray thoughts. Was it any more foolish 
for him to write poems to read to himself and to lay and rot 
with him than 'twas for the first writers? They and their 
books were all dead now. 

This poet, after admiring his rhyme-!, fell backward on the 
ground to rot — he and his works unburied. 

Streams flowed on as usual, forests grew, rain and snow 
fell, the wind still blew, seasons were the same, the moun- 
tains crumbled not away, the sun moon and stars all shone as 
wont, gold lay in mines untouched, volcanoes ceased not to 
burn, the animals were increasing and dying as usual, all 
went on as ever ; but poor sentimental man was not. 

Humanity left the world about as humanity found it, with 
the lands, seas, birds and beasts. 'Twas now ready to be 
peopled anew; no living thing remained to tell what had 
been, for the animals they were dumb. 

Not. 11, 1884 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

LINES TO ELLA WHEELER. 

Written Just after reading her poem, "The Fault of the Age." 

True '''we force our roses before their season 

To bloom and blosso7n that we may wear:'' 
And for cloint^ so we have good reason, — 

If to see a rose at all we care. 
For the people of this age are wise, 

And know that if they get to see such things 
They must hurry them on. They fully realize 

That death is coming on swiftest wings. 
Oh, call it not a fault if we do try to fly 

To heights that were made to climb, you know 
That if we I'each them befoi'c we die 

We must^y or run — not go slow. 



DRUNKARDS WOULD THEN BE FEW. 



How some people do alcoholic fluids condemn, 

But the fools that swallow it, nothing of them. 

How it makes fiends of men, they go on to tell. 

And when they say that they surely mean well. 

Yet it would harm no one, as all know, 

If the fools would not this accivsed spirits swallow. 

Can't blame a molested neighbor for throwing a stone; 

Who wouldn't be hit should let him alone. 

The caterpillar and tomato- worm are each 

When not tasted harmless as a ripe peach. 

So is alcohol. When swallowed nothing'll hurt you 

[quicker. 



MISCELLA NEO US POEMS. 41 

Many meu lay their ruination to women and. liquor. 
These accused things'd never harm'm, let me here say, 
If they'd keep liquor from them and from vile women 

[keep away. 
Keep liquor out of you and keep out of the saloon. 

The balloonist who falls — then curses the balloon — 

Is like the ruined donkey drunkard, when 

He curses the patronized saloon and vile women. 

The world will never be of liquor rid. 

Stop the sale of it, — 'twill be secreted and hid. 

St Johnism or the prohibition law we find 

Will not work; St Johnists and Prohibitionists're blind. 

Their way of thinking's the poetry of it I suppose; 

Sublime indeed, but here's the genuine prose ! 

Don't try to stop the liquor sale, yet never think 

Of punishing the fools who the filthy stuif drink ! 

We'd find that 'twould nearly demolish the liquor sale, 

If every intoxicated man we'd throw into jail ; 

Keep him there six months, make him hard work do, 

And whip him each day — drunkards would then he few, 

And so would saloons. The only way, of course. 

To run liquor out is to put that law in force. 

At any rate drunkards would be/e?/', I'm sure, 

And I sincerely hope such will be in the future! 

Of all the detestable things on all this earth. 

The lowest, the meanest and the least worth. 

The drunkard certainly heads the list. Yes; 

Almost anything is preferable to accursed drunkenness. 

Were drunkards fewer how much happier we'd be. 

Better husbands, wives, children and homes we'd see. 



MhS( J'U. 1. A y AV ) I '.S IH JJiJM.S. 

And l)y eutbrcing that prose-law I'll warrant yon 
That the cases of drnnkenness would he few. 
Men wouldn't go staggering home their wives to beat, 
Though liquor were sold on every corner of the street. 
Each drinker would, I'm sure beyond a doubt, 
That he didn't drink too much keep a good look out. 
That we can clear liquor out — absurd to think it, 
Witlnnit first severely punishing tliose who drink it. 



ODE TO THOMAS MOORE'S "CHALLENGE. 



He needn't have ranged the whole world 'round 
To sigh one moment at a true maid's feet, 

There were doubtless many near by to be found 
Whose hearts could love without deceit. 

A pilgrim of years 'twere needless to roam, 
To catch a sparkle of her beauteous eye ; 

Near at hand could be found her sainted home. 
The same air he breathed received her sigh. 

For there tcere and are maids sincere and fair, 

Yes, both fair and sincere too; 
There is many a thing on earth so rare, 

Many a maid sincere and true. 

He could've gazed on them moiMi and night, 
'Till his heart \v,i't him through his eyes. 

Why, to see a true maid is no great sight — 

More maids than men where truth in the bosom 



lie 



MLSCEL L A NEO US POEMS. 

WHY DO THEY DO SO^.^ 



"I have heard of your paintings too, well enough; God hath given you one 
face, and you make yourselves another."— //rt(rt?e^ 



True, women do paint and powder; but then' 

Why do they do so? To please the men. 
They wouldn't care a bit, simple creatures. 

Whether white or black, or good or bad features, 
Or whether or not a shapely form they had. 

But to please men, they powder, lace and pad. 
Men call a woman a sknu^h without these, 

Yet condemn her for using 'em. Hard to please! 



THE HEART WE CANNOT SEE. 



"The good must merit Gods peculiar care 

But who but God can tell us who the.v are T'—Popc. 



Ah, we may never know the sorrows, 

The agony, the grief, dismay. 
That our fellow beings suffer — 

That cloud their daily pathway. 
We cannot tell by their outwai'd api)earance 

Whether good or bad is the heart. 
Life's a play, the world's a stage, 

And each must play their part. 
Some must sow good seeds on arid sands. 

For God has planned it so, 
While surrounding others are fertile lands 

On which their seed to sow. 



MISVELLA NEO US POEMfi. 

God's built a stage, composed a great play, 

And we the players are ; 
Some must play villiaus, good-men, fools, 

And some are cast the "star." 
Many have sinned, none are perfect, 

In His or our mimic plays — 
No, let's not judge ourselves — we may err — 

Let God punish or praise. 
We know not what's hidden in one's heart 

Or how pure the soul may be; 
We scorn them for the part they play 

But the hea7-t we cannot see. 
Sometimes in the breast of the riliest stream 

The richest gems abound, 
And often neath a drift of snow 

The greenest grass is found. 
Oh, let's be kind, sympathizing, forgiving, 

And our hasty judgements forbear. 
Be each other's friend, and at the end 

God'll judge us right and fair. 
When the great curtain falls between us and life, 

When we have played our part, 
God'll give to each the reward they merit, 

For He can see the heart. 

Kel). 24, ISSl. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



THE UNITED STATES. 



Of the old origiDal worlds, you say, 
The United States is but imitation? 

Well, don't you know that imitations may 
Far excel an original creation? 

It takes the best parts of each one ; 

Yes, it mimics but the best — 
It borrows from the best or none, 

And originally created is the rest. 

After Europe's best things it imitates — 
Some good from all does it take; 

All these mixed with what it originally creates 
Makes the United States a — fruit cake ! 

August 7, '85. 



LIFE OF PRESIDENT GARFIELD. 



November 19, 1831, near Cleveland, Ohio, 

At Orange he was born. 
At what time o'clock I don't know 

Or whether night or morn. 

And in 1835, — a youth only four, 

With pretty bright eyes. 
For the best reader in his class 

He took the prize. 



W MISSCELLANliOUS POKMS. 

He was the youiiirest of four children ; 

His father died in 1844. 
Leaving his mother a widow with hiin 

And three cliildren more. 
1847, a boy of sixteen, wanting to help his mother, 

And feeling that he should ; 
He contracted to cut for twenty-five dollars, 

One hundred cords of wood. 

July, drove canal boat between Cleveland and Pitls- 

[biu-g. 

And proved himself no shirk; 
The hours which many boys were idling away 

Always found him at work. 
And finally as the days passed on. 

This lad so industrious, clever. 
Was called to lie in bed five months 

With malarial fever. 
Then went to Geauga Academy with $17, 

And carpenter work was done 
Nights and mornings to pay liis way. 

He the admiration of all won. 
At Williams College, in Massachusetts, 1855, 

With high honors he graduated ; 
Having put up a life insurance jiolicy for expenses, 

So it has been stated. 
1856, president of Hiram C-oUege, Ohio, 

And for his manly carriage 
Was admired of all. And to Lucretia Rudolph 

Was united in marria«:t^ 



MrSCELLA XEO 6W POEMS. 

Elected to the Ohio State Senate, 1860. 
Colonel of 42d Ohio Infantry, '61. 
With 1,100 men defeats 5,000 confederates and 
Frees Kentucky from invasion. 

Appointed brigadier-general, then chief of staff 

Of the Army of the ( Uiraberland, Jan, '63. 
Then appointed major-general for gallantry 

At Chickamauga, Tennessee. 
Then to ( ongress. Jan, '80 succeeded Thurman 

As United States Senator, 
In June, was nominated by the Republican party 

Our United States President for. 
And November 2nd, of that same year, 

Just as was expected, 
He, the self made James A. Gartield, 

For president was elected. 
Inaugurated as President of the United States 

On the 4th of March, 1881, 
And then shot by Charles Jules Guiteau 

2nd of July in Washington. 

Sept. 6 Moved on a stretcher to Elberon, 

Near Long Branch, N. J., 
And on Sept. 19, at 10:35 p. m., 

He passed from life away. 

His remain^ were taken and laid in state 

At Washington, D. C, 
And Sept. 22nd and 23rd. at Cleveland Ohio. 

Sept. 26th buried in I^ake View Cemetery. 



MISCJiLLA NKO US POEMS. 



TO SUSIE E S 

Well, you have fallen, but why complain? 

Surly you had no cause to do so. 
You were the pampered daughter of wealth ; 

Every body praised and petted you so. 
Had it been necessity that drove you there 

You then had merited sympathy, 
But since you were determined to be there 

No tears should fall, e'en from parent's eye. 

THE FAIR AT BISMARCK GROVE. 



At Bismarck Grove — thousands of people were there ; 

In the fall of 1880 to attend the fair. 

The grove's lovely, so shady it's almost dark. 

The whole grove's like a beautiful park. 

In the center is a beautiful clear lake, 

More beautiful this celebreted grove to make. 

As before said, thousands of people were there 

To visit the first annual state fair. 

There were all kinds of art and produce there to see. 

There were a few things that quite astonished me. 

They were corn and pumpkins such I ne'er seen before. 

Corn stalks averaging fifteen feet, some mure. 

The republican pumpkin weighed pounds 173, 

And the democratic scpiash was a sight to see. 

Agricultural products, — all who were there'll agree 

That thev were as fine as such things can be. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. W 

And some of the horses were perfectly grand, 

As fine as are raised in any land. 

Live stock, art, and all kinds of produce were there, 

Fine as can be seen in any laud at any fair. 

And the races they were very fine, too, 

And were attended by crowds the whole week through. 

Early rhymes, 18S8. 



THEBURNING OF THE NEWH ALL HOTEL 



An appalling horror at Milwaukee occurred. 

January tenth, at four a. m. a great alarm was heard — 

A fire'd broke out in the Newhall House, 

While the sleeping City was still as a mouse. 

A Hotel of mammoth size, occupying one block, 

Was all laid in ruin at about five o'clock. 

The hotel was with guests well filled. 

Some escaped death, but hundreds were killed. 

The ground flo(»r all was occupied by stores. 

The guests at the upper windows appeared by scores. 

Some jumped out to escape the fire. 

But as soon or ere they reached ground did expire. 

Yes, all those who from the windows leaped, 

All mangled on the ground they lay heaped! 

Women and childi-en's frenzied shrieks the air rent. 

And horror to the souls of the lookers on it sent. 

The proprietor of the house, John S. Antisdcl, 

Who had escape to the street from the burning hotel. 

Added to the excitement by running to and fro, 

In the lio'hted area, shriekinti; franticallv. "( )li, oh, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



My God, my God, who set this on fire?" 

A piercing shriek ! another human'd fallen to expire. 

On the pavement they'd land with a heavy crash. 

Which did the very bones in their body simsh. 

One man by exerting all his strength, 

Letting himself from one window to another at arms' 

[length. 
Finally the third floor in safety he reached, — 
The crowd with encouraging cheers just screeched. 
But as he was putting his feet through the top 
Of the second story window he did slip and drop 
To the ground with a shriek of despair, 
Turning as he fell, several times in the air. 
They picked him up, a mangled corpse was he. 
'Twas a ghastly, terrible sight to see ! 
From a fifth story window jumped another man. 
And struck the telegraph wires on street Michigan, 
He bounded up and came down a mangled mass. 
This scene of horror all the others did surpass. 
During the progress of the fire, two men 
Appeared at an upper story window, when, 
As they looked down on the scene below. 
Their room's floor gave way, and they did go 
With shrieks backward into tne vortex of flame. 
These horrors raise the Newhall to long fame. 
The servants quarters were in the rear. 
The fire was not yet so badly raging here. 
The panic stricken creatures, some seven or eight. 
Jumped ; the rest did for assistance wait. 
Those who jumped, ere they reached ground their breath 



MWCELL A NEO US POEMS. 51 

Was gone, The}^ lay shrouded by snow in deatli. 

At this juncture a heroic fireman appeared 

On the building with a ladder. The crowd loudly cheered. 

The ladder descended with a sudden crash, 

And did through a window of the hotel smash ; 

It formed a bridge across the alley, however, 

And whether steady in position or not, he never 

Noticed; he crossed over into the burning building, when, 

Amid cheers from the Tiiultitude below, he then 

Dragged the helpless creatures across the slender bridge, 

[until 
Seven or eight were rescued. Oue woman helpless and 

[still, 
Lay in a dead faint, entirely unable to stir. 
He across the bridge in safety took her. 
One time the whole of her body was hanging over clear 
OiF the ladder. The crowd held their breath in sus- 

[pense, for fear 
The ladder'd fall or break beneath the terrible strain ; 
But he crossed in safety. Then burst forth the cheers 

[again. 
This noble gallant fireman, brave and bold. 
Saved many lives from the depths of the grave so cold. 
Tom Thumb and wife, Minnie Palmer and the Madison 

[Square 
Troupes, at the time of the fire were there. , 

The little General and wife were rescued by a police- 

[man, who 
Put them under his arm and walked away with the 

["little two." 
-Mnt nic - Palffl erVtr<»i pe all its baggage lost, and, to©-, 

• ^bei-M c l o , ■ . 



32 MmCELLANEO US FOEMIS, 

54ieH-4eadiBg^«amediaOy John Gilbert, and hii*-- yo««^ 

--[brider 
Several noted persons perished in this horrifying fire, 
And many less known did also then expire. 

Early Rhymes, January, 1S83. 



THE COEUR D'ALENE CRAZE. 



To go, or not to go, that is the question : — 
Whether 'twould be better to stay here, to remain poor, 
Or to go, and perhaps make a fortune ; 
To take with me what money I have, to spend it there; 
Perhaps to make no more? — Xo loose it, to bust ! 
No money ! Moneyless and consequently friendless. 
Ah, when, would end the heartaches, blues, 
The thousand sighs that the heart is heir to? 
'Tis a subject to be pondered on. To go, — 
Xo go to get rich, — [)erchance to walk home, 
Ay ! there's the rub ; 

For in that hilly country how rough the roads must be. 
Ere I'd get home, my feet would be so sore! 
' Here I must pause, — there's those many miles 
That make me tremble to think of. 

Who would like to walk so far o'er hills, through dales? 
A proud man like me! Oh, how 'twould hurt my feelings! 
How I'd long the passenger car to take ! 
When now could I but know how 'twould turn out, 
I could save all that. 
For who would stop into the jaws of trouble, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 53 

To groan and sweat under a heavy burden, 
But that we know not what the future holds. 
What's in the under-cover future that fashions our end, 
No man can discern, it puzzles the will. 
And so we live on with the fortunes we have. 
Or fly to others better or worse, 
BuL the fear of worse makes cowards of us all. 
'Thus the native hue of resolution is sicklied o'er 
With the pale cast of thought, and enterprises of great 
Pith and moment with this regard their currents turn awry 
And loose the name of action." 
I've thrice resolved to go and try my fortune, 
And thrice resolved to let good-enough alone. 
For should 1 go to that country I know nothing of but 

[hear-say — 
The country from which hvxt few of tliose who've gone before 

Have as yet returned — and loose all, 

What would become of me ? 

The question is — to go, or not to go ? 

April 8, 1884. 

"LIFE'S SEASONS." 



The first season of life is spring, 

When we are young and fair; 
When our hopes are to bloom 

And glorious fruit to bear. 
And when we bloom full into life, 

'Tis summer then we know ; 
Just as the seasons of the year are, 

They are with life just so. 



MlSCJiLLA NHO I A' POEMS. 

Then wht'u our summer is o'er, 

And its suushine and showers are past, 
We begin to grow infirm, and we know 

That autumn's come at last. 
Wo struggle on through the autumn, 

That we're fading we see each day, 
And we know the winter's drawing near 

When our life must pass away. 
Then we're folded in winter's icy grasp, 

And all life's seasons are past ; 
The spring, summer and autumn are o'er, 

And winter's come at last. 
We <lie as the grass and flowers. 

Our bodies they go to decay, 
But our spirits bloom again in the spring. 

In the spring — of eternity, (fj 



THE HAUNTED HOUSE. 



The haunted house, a mansion grand, 

Did for years untenanted stand, 

Tn the city of B — , fourteenth avenue near. 

All who did of this haunted house hear, 

They wer<> actually quite 

Afraid to pass it after night. 

They were so sure that ghosts were there, 

That the windows, with a ghostly glare. 

Seemed staring at them as passing by. 

Manv families did to live there try. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 55 

But none of them could there long stay ; 

The ghosts soon frightened them away. 

All said they heard quite well, 

The sound of a tiny little bell, 

Go ringing through the house to and fro, 

And this sound frightened them so. 

Then on certain days they'd hear 

A sound more hideous and clear, — 

This was a very pitiful moan. 

So no one dared to stay there alone. 

So tenantless for years did it stand, 

This haunted house, a mansion grand. 

Its first occupants were a family of three; 

But now mong the living they'd ceased to be. 

And now, since they had passed away, 

Ghosts through the place seemed ever to stray. 

Finally the officers of the town 

Ordered this house to be torn down, 

They said, 'twere shameful, you know. 

To let it stand, 'twas haunted so! 

A demijohn was found which some one did there tie, 

With open nose near a kuot-hole in the attic high, 

And when a breeze would pass 'twould moan — 

Make, oh, such a pitiful sounding groan. 

Then when the house was torn down flat. 

They discovered a bell tied to the neck of a rat. 

The worst haunted house they'd heard of yet. 

Haunted by a moan and bell round the neck of a pet. 

The bell'd been tied to its neck by the child. 

Since she died, through the house it ran wild! 



So that grand lofty inausion was 
All destroyed without any real cause. 
The people were sorry the souuds'd so annoyed, 
And caused them to have the house destroyed. 
I think all the haunted houses of which folks tell, 
Would turn out 'bout the same if looked into well. 
They'd find the cause's simple as the "demijohn" 

[and "bell." 

Early Rhymes. 1888. 



TIS THE FIRST ROSE OF SUMMER, 



'Tis the first rose of summer 

Here blooming alone ; 
No companions have, as yet, 

Their sweet faces shone. 
Its pretty head droops sadly, 

The flush mantles high, 
Lt is thinking of the hundreds 

That must yet bloom and die. 

I'll not leave thee, thou sad one, 

Till thou livest to see 
Lovely buds open to bloom 

And fade like thee ! 
Thus kindly 1 .scatter 

Thy leaves, drooping rose. 
Where most of thy kindred flowers 

Will lie, I snppo.se. 




Flora, are we not truly happy? 
Let us then these moments treasure. 
—Page 57. 



August (i, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

'T seems hard to destroy it, 

Yet 'tis better 'twere gone. 
Than h've to see others bloom 

And die, one bv one ! 
'Twere better for us to die now, 

Tlian after we've pass'd 
Through seas of dire sorrows, 

And then die at last. 



"LOVE'S SPRING-TIME." 

Sweetly smiles love's happy springtime ; 

Our hearts are full of pleasure. 
Flora, are we not truly happy ? 

Let us then these moments treasure. 

Soon will spring-time yield to summer. 
And summer soon gives way to fall ; 

Then we'll think of these happy hours, 
And often them to mind recall. 

Though we are happy now Flora, 

And free are our hearts from care, 

(For love's spring-time is a joyous time, 

And its sunshine is with us every where,) 

This happy spring-time will not always last ; 

It doesn't with others, it won't with us,- 
There will something come to blight it. 

Something, for 'twas ever thus. 



MTSCELLA NEO U8 POEMS. 

Would WO could always be happy, Flora, 

Kver live iu love's spring-time. 
Would all the seasons of our whole life, 

(Jould pass with as sweet a chime. 
Oh, may no clouds hang o'er our future. 

May nought come between you and I, 
To blight love's happy spring-time, 

Till the last day passes by ! 



SHAKESPEARE'S OR BACON'S 



I wrote this poem just after reading two or three columns in a daily paper, 
headed— "The wonderlul discovery by Ignatius Donnelly." He said that he 
was writing a book that when done would prove that Bacon is the autlior of 
the Shakespearean works. This so incensed me, that, in the heat of indig- 
nation, I wrote the following verses. They may speak too harshly of Mr. Don- 
nelly ; he may mean well; he may be one of the wisest of men ; but lay all of 
that aside,— let us be just and follow justice every where. To do this, we 
must look within,— into the very core of our conscience ; it will always tell 
us right from wrong. A sharp lawyer might argue a point so clear that tho' 
far from being just, you would agree with him, unless you pay more atten- 
tion to your heart's argument than his. 



No, 1 care not a penny or cent. 

For Ignatius Donnelly's sharp argument, 

Though on this trail three years he's spent, 

And spends three more, 
We'll (!all them Shakespeare's and be content, 

As we've been before. 
Ignatius Donnelly, own 'tis a shame, 
Else own you're trying to win a name. 
By meddling thus with dead men's fame. 

And shame the Devil ! 
'Twere better to miss the mark or game 

At which von level. 



MISCELLA NEO US POEMS. I 

Pray go no further, for pity's sake, 
For 'tis so iguoble to try to take 
Laurels from a sluraberer who can't wake 

To defend his rights. 
The thought of it makes ray heart ache. 

Yours it delights (?) 

The laurels you'd take from Shakespeare's brow, 
And on Francis Bacon bestow — 
May by true right, as who does know, 

To Shakespeare belong ! 
Then what could you expect but a home below, 

For doing him such wrong. 

Oil, drop this subject, sir, I pray. 

Don't try to steal the laurels away 

From one who's long been turned to clay. 

To bestow them on another. 
Let's call the works Shakespeare's, tho't may 

Be Bacon was their mother. 

But if he hadn't the nerve to own 

His works, was ashamed to have't known, 

That he was a writer, — let it alone, — 

Too long they've been dead 
To prom that't belongs not — the crown 

On Shakespeare's head. 

You say that a man in their time 

Was ashamed his play or dramatic rhyme 

To acknowledge, — as if 'twere a crime. 

So partly through fear, 
He gave all of those plays sublime 

To William Shakespeare. 



MISOKLI.A XKOUS POEMS. 

Tlieii, if lie was asluuned as you've said, 
And at'raiil rliat \w iniglit l(is(; liis head, 
Would rather let tliein yd — instead 

Oi' iiiofherin;/ his works 
r^et Shakespeare claim them, throug-h fear or dread — 

Plaiiue taki- sneli shirks ! 

'Twould almost s|)i)il the sentiment of those 
Great i)lays were we to suppose 
That sneli a man did them compose 

Who so dreaded to die;*^ 
That to live longer inong fools he chose. 

Instead of immortality. 

If an own mothei- wont take care 
Of her own children, homely or fair, 
And another woman takes them to share 

Her home with her, 
The children're called her's, here and there, 

Tho' that one's they were. 

So, if Shakespeare stood like an oak tree, 
And midst such perils claimed to h^S 
The author, kept Bacon from peril ir^B, 

Pray let me ask 
Who's more of a right to them than he — 

The hold veil or mask'! 

But such thoughts we'll put to rout. 
That they're Shakesj)eare's we wont doubt. 
For we've no way of finding out 

That thev are not. 



MWCELLANEOUS POEMK 



Too late to bring such matters about — 

A great miss-shot! 



That book which is soon to appear before the public to prove the author- 
ship of those great works in Bacon, may be a seemingly clear proof; but 
though ten thousand scientists should bring forth their so called proofs, they 
cannot prove it ! After those authors have been dead so long, the proofs they 
bring foward now are far too flimsy to accept. 

1st.— Suppose Mr Donnelly has discovered all of that cipher work done by 
Bacon, and what if it is woven in with Shakespeare's works ? Couldn't he've 
taken those works after Shakepeare was dead— and being jealous of his 
fame and not daring of course to then dispute Shakespeare's right to them, 
—and arranged that cipher work thinking that in after years those works 
might be credited to him? 

2nd.— Could not other men after Bacon died have invented this cipher 
work and placed it among his things, for that they might have disliked 
Shakespeare, and Bacon might have been a favorite, and they'd prefer him 
to wear the immortal crown ? 

3d.— Might not men of a later period have invented this cipher work 
thinking to gain a name ? 

4th.— Some say that Bacon's and Shakespeare's works are much alike and 
that Bacon must've been the author of them all. Why not turn the tables 
and say they must have all been Shakespeare's and that he not caring for 
those poorer writings, gave them to Bacon, and as natural, kept the best for 
himself. That were greatly more plausible than that Bacon would let 
Shakespeare mother the best and he the poorest. 

5th.— If their pictures are true likenesses of them, Shakespeare is most 
undoubtedly the auther,— there never was a wiser looking man. 

You might say— what have looks to do with compositions ? Perhaps nothing. 
But Byron— there is a determined sublimity about his looks, as in his works. 

Burns is clear, quick, changeable^looking just like his poems. Longfellow 
looks the very image of his works, and Walt Whitman— you can decide just 
what his works are before reading a word. Glance at his picture heading his 
"Song of Myself" and you will conclude that his works are the lowest, most 
senseless that any creature could write, and so they are. 

Wordsworth is mild looking— his works are very mild ! Pope,— you'd say 
"he is a satirist" by just glancing at his picture. 

April 2fi, 1SS5. 



A TRAMP AMONG THE FLOWERS. 

Imitated after "Tlie Tramp in The Garden." 

In a garden full of flowers, 

There were roses — red, yellow and pink. 
'T would take two or three hours 

To look through it thoroughly, I think. 



(Jli MlSChJLL A i\A'U Uii PO l£Mti, 

There were tiger lilies and lilies white, 
Geraniums and s\veet mignonette ; 

This garden was a beantiful sight, 

So lovely the flowers and charmingly set. 

But in this beautiful garden there rose 
A weed 'mongst the flowers rare, 

As ugly a looking weed as grows, 

Springing up among the flowers there. 

One day white rose, its head bent 

To ask this coarse weed by its side. 
What by growing 'mongst flowers it meant ; 

"What mean I?" it independently replied. 
"I mean, proudie, to grow where I please, 

I'm not so pretty, yet it seems to me, — 
(Oh, you needn't feel ill at ease,) 

That I'm as good as any flower I see." 
But the gardener came by with a heavy stride, 

Unblamed he pulled up the weed, 
And of the garden wall flung it outside; 

'"Tis useless, of it there's no need." 
True, 'twas useless, yet why should He create 

Things that are of no use on earth ? 
If they're to be trampled on at this rate. 

Why, oh God, do you give them birth? 
It would have been a beautiful flower, 

I'll warrant you it would indeed; 
It longed to be lovely and useful each hour, 

Alas, 'twas created an urfly useless weed! 

May, 1888. 



MISCEL L A NEO US PO EMS. 63 

THE CART BEFORE THE HORSE. 

"But I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do 
good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you 
and pei'secute you."— 6"^ Matthew, Chapter V., Verse 44. 

Who wrote that perhaps thought it sublime, 
But to practice it would be to reward crime; 
Why, how silly to love aud bless those who 
Despitefully use, persecute aud harm you. 
A good high reward for crime that would prove; 
Mauy would harm you so's to wiu your love. 
Who says he approves that seutimeut, of course 
He is simply hitchiug the cart before the horse. 



A BROKEN LIFE. 



"I seem like one who treads alone 

Home banquet hall deserted. 
Whose lights are fled, whose garlands dead, 

And all but me departed."— Moore. 



He is to be married very soou, 

And happy seems he; 
And everybody whispers, oh, 

How blest his bride will be. 

It is common news to them, 

This match of Avhich they speak ; 

But every word that's spoken, 

Brings the hot flush to my cheek. 

He told me that he loved me, 
That with me he'd never part ; 

All at once he changed his mind 
Aud tramples on my very heart! 



MIH(JELL A NEO UN HJEMN. 

Now a broken life is iniue, 

My heart does with sorrow beat; 
Though I wouldn't take him back, 

Should he plead kneeling at my feet. 
But, oh, I have trusted and loved him ! 

Yes, loved but him alone; 
And as he has proven himself fickle. 
My heart's almost turned to stone. 
I scorn him now but loved him once, 

And by his thus taking a wife, 
It's broken my trust, crushed my hopes 

And cruelly blurred my life. 
If I should live a thousand years, — 

(Of course none of us can,) 
I'd never forget those broken vows, 
Nor love another man. 



FAME, 



" O, popular applause ! what heart of man 
Is proof against thy sweet seducing charms ' 



Fame ! why, what's fame but a name ? 
Yet who would not strive to win the same? 
What do actors persevere and go through 
Living deaths each week for? Why , to 

Win fame. 
'Tis certainly not a pleasant life to live. 
And what do men fight and strive 
To get to the presidential chair for? 



M1SVKLL,A NEU US I'OKMIS. 

Why, for this and not much more, — 

To win fame. 

What for did Grant for his country fight ? 
AVas it for tlie real love of doing right? 
Would he to war so willingly have gone, 
And fought for us as he has done. 
Had he not thought before he went, 
To build himself a lasting monument, — 

To win fame? 
Caesar and Napoleon, what were they 
Ever wrangling or warring for, say, — 
Had they seen no gleaming fame ahead, 
Would they not prefered to go — to bed? 

But there was fame. 
Fame! who wouldn't stoop to pick it up? 
Who wouldn't drink sorrows fullest cuj). 
To win it? Ob, thousands wouldn't, but 
Hundreds would wade through the deepest rut. 

To win fame. 



A THOUGHT. 



W^ho does a good deed, unknown to the world, 

A real deed of charity^ 
That deed will surely be recorded by Gotl. 

Indeed 'twere an action of rarity ! 



MAKENOT THE SAD HEART GLOOMIER. 



Oh, lay away these sombre garments, 
With crape all covered o'er; 
My heart is sad and sore. 
Go bring me now a cheerful costume, 



And put brightest flowers in my room, 
And sprinkle it over with sweet perfume, 
These may help to chase out the gloom 

That's been here since, but never before 
My treasure was called to the tomb. 
Yes, bring me flowers and my gayest dress. 
This "darkness" they may slightly make less. 

They surely cannot make it more. 

Oh, these pall-like, mournful garments, 
This room without birds or flowers, 
That clock drearily ticking the hours ! 
These alone are enough to make one feel bad, 
Tho' nought else to grieve them they had. 
Oh, why should we go in sombre black clad, 
When bereaved of one, to make us more sad ? 

God knows in this world of ours 
At best there's not much to make us glad. 
Make not the sad heart gloomier when one dies, 
Bv wearing or putting sombre things before the eyes. 
On the mourner Time's sword soon lowers! 
Sept. 8. iH.s-^.. 



THE AVERAGE MAN. 

When she died, he cried and raved about 
'Till all the grief in's heart was out. 

He said ''let the dead and beautiful rest ; 
That I should forget her 'twere best." 

And in less than one little short year 



MI8CELLA NEO US POEMS. 



He'd quite forgotten his Leota dear. 
He forgot to keep sacred the last words she said, 
III one short year another wife he wed. 



A SENTIMENTAL BOUQUET. 



I arranged and sent to a loved friend to-day, 

A bouquet of flowers, — a sentimental bouquet. 

I stepped into the conservatory to see the flowers, 

As I was leisurely passing the hours. 

I thought of her, the object of my love and admiration, 

So plucked an amethyst and lovely carnation ; 

Then a beautiful dahlia I spied at next glance. 

And placed it with these to speak of elegance; 

Then as a token of sincerity and constancy to tell, 

I gathered some lovely /erns and blue bell. 

Next an arbntus, "thee only do I love", — she knows 

[that full well; 
To say "remembered beyond the tomb" I plucked an 

[^asphodel. 
And to say "I adore you with the devotion of Penelope" 
I at once gathered some magnificent heliotrope ; 
Then looked at my bouquet, saw 'twasn't complete quite, 
So gathered to speak of purity, a lovely lily white. 
Then a mugwart, this sentiment to express — 
That I wish her abundance of good luck and happiness, 
To say I deem her without of wickedness a tint. 
Next I gathered was a little bunch of mint; 
Then a purple pansy to say "I think of you," 
And as confession of love I gathered rose buds two. 



tiS MISCKL L A S FA ) I :s I'O KMS. 

riieu more /f'/"U.s, uiul for love a red pink 
And a red rose too, theu .said I, ''I think 
I've gathered enough to make a sentimental bouquet! 
And began placing them together in a pretty way, 
When done, I looked at it, ray friends did so too ; 
We pronounced it complete. I tied the stems with a 

[ribbon blue. 

As a token of good luck 1 purchased a gilt horse shoe, 

Tied it to the bouquet, its curve the stems fell through. 

My bouquet was all ready, — I sent it to her to-day. 

And am wondering what she'll think of my sentimental 

[bouquet. 

Early Rhymes, ISS8. 



N THE SWING. 



"Her soul is lar away, 

In her childhoods land, perchance. 
Where her young sisters play, 

Where shines her mother's glance."— ^l/r.< Hemans 



One evening she .sat in the large swing, 
And began of by-gone days to think ; 

She commenced a sad song to sing, 
Just as the sun began to sink. 

"Ah me, to think of the by-gone days. 

With their sadness and their bliss ; 
The days that were pass'd in many ways — 

Let me compare them to this." 
Then all that was real around be- 

Canie dim ; her mind was in the past ; 
Her childhood days she could see, 

And from those to this the last. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

She begau to weigh them all, 

To find which were best, 
But of all the days she could recall 

No day was exactly blest. 
Some of the bitter had each day, 

And some of the sweet also, 
But of all the days that'd passed away 

This was most filled with woe. 
Of all sorrows that grieve the mind, 

And all other griefs above — 
If you've had a test, it's true you find, — 
It is disappointed love. 

But years have passed since then, 

And she's very thankful for 
That parting; none could her convince then 

That 'twas right, her heart was sore ; 
Now it has healed, nor left a scar 

To disfigure it whatever, but 
Ev'n to wear a scar would be better far 

Than the — fresh bleeding cut. 

Early Rhymes, 1883. 

THE DAYS OF OLD. 

Imitated after another poem, "The Days of Old." 

"Those gallant days, the days of old, 
I love to hear their legends told." 

I love to see dramatic plays 

That're founded on scenes of olden days ; 



70 MmCELhAyEOUS POEMS. 

Scones of those oldeu days, brave and gallant, 

When revived by good dramatic talent 
How magnificent they are ! 

It seems they were always in war, 
Always in battles or gallant fights, 

Were those kings, lords and knights. 
Soon's a boy a sword could wield, 

He grasped it, left home and field, 
(^f those battles 1 love to read, 

With stalwart men, and splendid steed, 
With helmet and war-harness of glittering gold; 

Oh, I love to hear of those days of old. 

Karly Rhymes, is,s:!. 

THE WINGED INSECTS. 

The winged insects, of living miniature things are the most 

[beautiful to the eye, 

But they're often not originally so; 
They acquire thatbrillancy and form by progressive change 

To-day a cater])illar-worm, creeping slow, 
To-morrow it lies as though dead ; strange, 
But soon he's turned into a beautiful butterfly ! 

No resemblance of the caterpillar-worm remains there; 

He is all made over new. 
He flies through the air with beautifully painted wing, 

The most beautiful of insects true. 
His powers are all new, and his life is quite another thing ; 
So it's reasonable 'tis the same way with other insects of the 

[air. 



MmVELLANEOUS POEMH. 

This caterpillar-worm changing form and life thus, 
Shows us immortality in the miniature. 

His little life represents a heas'en and an earth, 
And a present state and a future ; 

And though the lesson may be of but little worth, 

It teaches of a life hereafter for us. 

December, 1883. 



WEEP NOT FOR HIM BUT FOR THOSE. 



" He is one of the mighty immortals, 

A halo encircles his name, 

He goes through the innermost portals, 

Enrobed in the mantle of lame. 

Time, touching his name and his story, 

To eternity blazons it on ; 

Immortal, unchangeable glory, 

Crowus Grant and the fame he has won. "—W. E. Pabor. 



Our general, U. S. Grant, was a great general, truly. 
He fought bravely for us ; therefore praise him duly. 
He is dead ; let us tenderly lay him away, 
And every due respect to our dead hero pay. 
Poets and Historians will make immortal his name. 
And set him on the height of everlasting fame. 
Less lasting monuments in inemorium will be raised. 
He will ever be, as he has been, lauded and praised; 
Then why weep ? — weep none of you, no, none, 
Unless you begrudge him the glory he has won. 
Such were unfair, he earned, deserved it all ; 
Oh, then weep for those who in dread darkness fall. 
All you who have wept, weep no more ! 
Our hero is dead, but there's nothing to weep for. 
In life, the world praised and pampered him so. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Wheu sick, he was unusually well cared for, you know. 

Now, poets pay a tribute to our hero dead 

And the whole world in reverence bows its head. 

Then weep not for him, — everyone, all, must die. 

Weep for the noble hearts who in uncared-for graves do lie. 

Look at poor crippled soldiers dragging their lives out, 

Legless or armless, yet kicked and knocked about ; 

Helpless and friendless the poor creatures live. 

A scanty pension does the government to them give. 

Yet they fought for their country well's they could, 

And some of them are the best of the' good. 

They fought hard as Grant — they'll get no pay, 

But speeches and flowers on decoration day. 

They were unfortunnate creatures, as everyone knows. 

And so weep not for Grant but for those. 

Oil, the bright frank faces and fine manly forms 
That too Soon fell, a feast for the worms, — 
Those who were shot down in their manhood's prime, 
To moulder in earth, — those true hearts sublime ! 
What high deeds were crushed they gave promise to 

[fuimil, 

When untimely they were laid in graves cold and still ! 
Like young vigorous oaks blown down to rot, 
What they were or would've been, all soon forgot. 
Like a bud nipp'd ere its full beauty it shows, — 
Oh, never weep for fortunate Grant, but for those. 

How foolish to weep for such a glowing light 'twere. 

You might weep for dim ones that eanH shine any brighter, 

Or for those who sow blue-grass and clover seeds 



MIISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

And yet raise uought but a yard full of weeds. 
You wouldn't weep for Byrou, Campbell or Poi^e, 
Who lived to see fulfilled their every hope? 
They lived to express every sentiment they could; 
You wouldn't weep for them nor should. 
Nor for Shakespeare ; for David Gray you might, 
Or for him too early cut down — Kirke White. 

Like the bankers who $90,000. in cash receive 
When with the goverment $100,000. they leave, 
Yet on the whole $100,000. draw interest- 
Was Grant; he always had the best of the best ; 
While others deposit their $100,000. and yet 
But barely the interest on that sum get. 
Grant tasted of all that's grand to a mortal 
On this earth, till he passed through death's portal. 
It seems he was successful in everything he tried. 
While others as persevering unrewarded have died. 
Let us sing to our hero who in death doth repose. 
And if we must weep, let us weep for those. 

August 5, 1885. 

AN OLD MAN'S REVERIE. 



"In doubt his mind or body to prefer, 

Born but to die and reasoning but to err."— Pope. 



I know the time is very near when I must pass away, 
I have lived to a goodly age, I'm eighty-one to-day; 
And now I've just learned how to live at eighty-one. 
I've lived (and thankful am for it) to see my great 

[grandson. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

On the seventh of May, in the year 1 802, 

I came into the world to live as other mortals do. 

Yes, then life and I were joined together. 

To journey on through pleasant and stormy weather, 

And we've journeyed together eighty-one long years. 

Death will part us soon, he cares not for sighs or tears. 

Those whose presence fills with joy my heart — 

It seems I cannot yet must soon with them part. 

Those who love shall meet, they say, up thei^e, 

But when the final hour's nigh we sigh, — up where? 

Our imagination pictures a home beyond the sky. 

We mostly yield to doubt when death draws nigh. 

We try to solve the mystery of life and death so strange 

And picture a meeting place according to reason's range. 

As to meeting again — we should and will we trust. 

He who eudowes us with love knows that 'twere but just ; 

But, when death comes prepared I'll be 

To go with him, wherever he would take me. 

And when I'm wrapt in death's arms to sleep. 

My children o'er the old man's grave will weep. 

My absence for a while a shadow o'er them will cast. 

Days will roll on — I'm forgotten at last. 

My children that love me now will dread 

To look on my pallid face when I'm dead. 

Strange, that we should shudder to look at a loved one 

When their spark of life is gone. 

O, would 1 could waken for one moment from that sleep 

And make known to them the death-mystery so deep. 

Death-mystery ? why, my life I would give 

To solve the mvsterv of what for we live. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 75 

We hate, love, loose, win, live through joy and strife. 
O, foolish world, mysterious death, mysterious life ! 
Life is as mysterious as the world, and by whom it was 

[founded, 
As the world and sky and by what they're bounded. 
We say sky is around the world, Heaven's beyond sky. 
What beyond Heaven ? Nothing. Beyond that? Wc 

[draw a sigh. 
But, — I'll call my children this very hour. 
Tell them to live for somthiug nobler'u worldly power. 
I will the best advice to them give, 
Show them the right path and how they should live, 
And whether we'll meet again — my doubts'U soon pass 

[away. 
My light will soon go out — yes, I'm eighty-one to-day. 

October, 1883. 



THE HAUNTED BRIDGE AT MIDNIGHT. 

"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in 
your philosopliy."— i/ttjyiifY. 

There was an old rude bridge at the end of a long lane, 
Called Bavin turnpike bridge. Time and time again 
Uncle Sam had crossed it. 'Twas between town and 

[his farm. 
'Twas far from any house; the scenery around it wouldn't 

[charm 
Any one much, for a long way around it look'd craggy and 

[desolate. 
But by taking that road it shortened his trip. At any rate 



MItiCELLANEOUIS POt;M!S. 

He always took this Baviu turnpike bridge road, 

Wlietiier with his empty wagon or a load. 

Such a good, true old man was Uncle Samuel, 

All the neighbors around there loved him well 

Regular twice a week over this bridge to town he'd go. 

Though 'twas a desolate road, he didn't then know 

The bridge was haunted. Had he thought of such. 

Perhaps he wonldn't have driven over it so much. 

But one time he didn't leave town till eight, 

So when he reached the bridge 'twas quite late, — 

About midnight. The horses "began to backward rare, 

He looked and saw a white horse lying there. 

He thought it'd just fallen, so out he jumped. 

With a stick at the horse he punched and thumped. 

He could see it, yet no horse there could be found ; 

When he'd strike it, 'twould make a moaning sound. 

Oh, then he was terrified, and often afterwards said. 

Every spear of his hair stood straight on his head. 

"It's only a shadow, I'll drive over it." 

But his horses, —he couldn't get them near it. 

And so their heads towards the town he turned. 

When he reached it he stated what he'd seen, and learned 

That the bridge had been called haunted for some time. 

And he also heard of the wicked, dastardly crime 

That had been committed there many years ago. 

And the tales he told excited the town folk, so 

They gathered together a large party of men — 

Well, not so very many, but about eight or ten, 

And went out to this bridge one real dark night. 

Perhaps they doubted whether Uncle had told them right. 




But one time he dida't leave town till eight ; 
So when he reached the bridge 'twas quite late,— 
About midnight. The horses began to backward rear. 
He looked and saw a while horse lying there. 

—Page 76. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 77 

They reached the bridge rather early, — 'twas eleven then. 

They waited; 'twas the hour of miduight, when 

The horse suddenly upon the bridge appeared. 

All were frightened, to go near it many feared ; 

But uncle ventured close to the bridge, for 

]Ie knew 'twouldn't hurt him, he'd seen it before ; 

Then they follow'd and gathered the bridge around, 

They'd strike the shadow and hear a piteous sound. 

They staid there till two, and were filled with surprise. 

The horse suddenly disappeared, and tho' their eyes 

Were looking directly 'pon't, they couldn't see where't went. 

They went home, and each one felt more content 

Since the spectre horse at the bridge they'd seen. 

They never would contented have been. 

Until they'd seen it with their own eyes. 

AVheuever they'd heard of it they thought it only — lies. 

The reason of the bridge being haunted was on account 

Of a crime. — A man who had money, a large amount, 

Was murdered and thrown under the bridge. The horse was 

[left on top. 
The assassin kuew this man would cross the bridge, and 

[did there stop 
To waylay and rob him, also to him murder. 
The assassin escaped. The deseased was Jim Herder; 
He was a rich farmer who had just sold his farm . 
And started for town, not thinking any thing'd do him 

[harm. 
Mr. Herder was highly esteemed — a real good man. 
He was tired of farming, so sold out to his brother Dan, 
And started for town, mounted on a large white horse. 
The assassin knew he had uiuch money with him, of course. 

Early Rhymes, 1883. 



MISCELL A NEO US POEMS. 

FAME TOWER. (A DREAM.) 



Well may sleep present us tictions, 

Since our waking moments teem 
With such fanciful convictions 

As make life itself a dream. 
Half our daylight faith's a fable, 

Sleep disports with shadows, too, 
Seeming In their turn as stable 

As the world we wake to view."— Oampfte^^ 



1 had a dreaiu. 1 was walking on tlie lowlands or plain, 
inong thouands of people, where I had ever strolled about 
happy and content, nor thought of the mystery of life or 
death ; but as a mere school girl I mingled with the throng, 
and was simply one ripple of the wave of humanity. 

A discontent siezed ou me, a wild desire to rise above the 
crowd, I thought I would be so happy could I look down on 
the multitude below. So, filled with these desires, I pressed 
forward. The crowd was dense, and a hard time I had to make 
my way through, but after many struggles succeeded. 

Blank darkness fell around me, yet on I went. A soft 
whispering voice said, "Go back ; retrace your steps and you 
shall find the light — 'tis light behind you, 'tis darkness ahead." 
I inquired who 'twas speaking. No answer. I groped around 
to find the source of it. Nothing could be found. Should I 
obey nothingness, — an empty phantom voice? No! So on I 
went. There was a blank space ; and now I was traveling on 
a straight, level road. My folks were with me. 'Twas 'just 
between darkness and daylight. The yellow moon cast a pale 
greenish, glimmering glare on ev^erything, and the air was 
fragrant with the breath of dewy flowers and fresh cut grass. 
Oh, delighted was I with this lovely scent, the balmy air, and 



MISCELLA NEO U8 POEMS. 79 

our smooth though obscure path ; and the mellow moonshine 
over all. I was contented, for, though we were in this ob- 
scure place, we were all together, and peaceful and healthy. 
A lark soared above my head and attracted my attention, and, 
turning my eyes partly upward and partly toward the west, I 
beheld a tower, and gazed and gazed. 'Twas the grandest 
sight my eyes had e'er yet been gifted to behold. Oh, 'twas 
grand beyond the power of the human tongue to describe. 
As I gazed at it I was bewildered or dazzled with its grandeur. 
All the lovely landscape near grew bleak, — all darkness it 
seemed. 

Nothing now was lovely but this tower. All else looked 
drear to me after once beholding this glittering sight. 'Twas 
made of (so it seemed as I gazed upon't) novelty wrought 
stones of the rarest kind; the roof was ornamented with 
wreaths of hand-painted flowers, and mong them, in great 
gleaming letters, were written the names of famous men and 
women. The windows glistened like diamonds. 'Twas full 
eight stories high, and built on the highest peak of the high- 
est mountain. It really seemed that one when there could 
hold converse with God, so near 'twas to Heaven. 

In my bewilderment I turned and said to my folks, "Stay 
here, while I walk to yon tower." They sighed, and said — 
"Beware, child, that tower is not so grand as it appears. Re- 
member, distance lends enchantment, and that tower is at a 
great distance. Rivers, foot-hills, mountains and precipices 
lie between it and us. You never could reach e'en the mount 
on which 'tis built, much less climb eight flights of stairs and 
paint your name on the roof." "But must I paint it there?" 
"Aye, all who reach that tower must register their names. 



so MI8CELL A NEO UlS I'i > I'JMK 

that the world may see them. Then should you start out and 
foil into some precipice, there you may lieaud rot. None will 
know how you tried, how weary you were with the struggle, 
or how near to it you were when you fell and failed. You 
and your ambition sink there to oblivion. But should you 
reach it, — what then ? You register your name ; it may 
stand there forever bright, or with time it may become blurred, 
perhaps faded out. But say it stands forever — 'tis only a 
name painted on fame tower J' 

Useless was all their preaching. The more they said against 
my going, the more determined I was to go. They tried to 
hold me, but I loosed myself from them and started full speed 
for fame toiver. 

Oh, how nice and smooth were the paths for a short dis- 
tance, and fine scenery greeted my eyes. Ere long I came to 
ruts and rivers, which, after many struggles, I crossed. As I 
came nearer to the tower, it grew less charming and my path 
grew steeper and steeper and rougher and rougher. I became 
so weary it seemed I could go no farther. I turned and looked 
down upon the multitude below, for now I could view all. 
I saw the poor forms of animated dust, each at their occupa- 
tions, — some quarreling, fighting, lawing, praying, toiling, 
weeping, sighing; some pondering Avhich road to take to fame 
tower, others sickening, dying ; some half way up the height 
fell and were seen no more, while others reached the tower. 

Some were just beginning to climb, and I thought — :oh, 
could I but teach them not to seek this tower! But useless 
would all my preaching be. Should I tell them I had seen 
the folly, they would but say — "we'll see the folly, too," and, 
"why do we find you on the road leading there?" And what 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. SI 

could I say? — "I was allured by the shiuing splendor of that 
toM^er." To which they would but reply, "We're allured, too." 
So I said nothing, but for some time stood and gazed and 
sighed to see millions of humans treading many, divers 
paths, and or smooth or rough, each several path leading 
to one goal — the grave. Oh, I was most wretchedly unhappy. 
I turned to complete my journey to fame tower; when lo! — 
straight in my path stood several men; they bowed and then 
introduced themselves. They were Homer, Shakespeare, 
Campbell, the cripples Byron and Pope, and not far behind 
them followed poor, tall, lank, pale David Gray, each dressed 
in their customary costumes as were worn in the age they 
lived in. Homer was introduced to me by Pope, then he 
stood by and said nothing ; Shakespeare looked at me with a 
frown and said "Fool, go back, thou canst never paint thy 
name so high as mine." My reply was, "Sir, I didn't boast 
that I could; I merely wish to reach the tower and paint my 
name wherever there's a space." Campbell said, "There's an 
empty space near my name ; I hope you may be able to paint 
your name there." Byron then said, as he wiped the sweat 
from his brow that bore traces of great distress — "Would I had 
not climbed this cursed steep. You see my name as the world 
sees it, painted in those gleaming colors that time may never 
tarnish. All admire that name, but detest me who painted it. 
Therefore, I would I had never reached that tower. Of what 
value is au an indelibly painted name when the painter is 
despised ?" He paused, overcome with emotion. Little Pope 
smiled sarcastically and said, "So you are bound for the tower! 
Ha, ha, ha ! Lords, what fools we are ! David Gray — a pathetic 
smile played round his mouth, as he said with trembling 



M' Ml.SVEI. L A .XKO US IK) J'JM.S. 

voitr, "] lu)|H' you will not meet with siieh fate as 1 did. 1 
needs must depend on my brother 'painters' to ti;ive my 
naiue another coat of" j)aiut or two ere it fades entirely." 

My eyes grew dim with tears. There was silence for a 
moment. I was the firstto break it. "Sirs, your advice is good, 
(for it seemed they had been telling me not to continue my 
Journey to fame tower) but as I have gone this far I will not 
turn back. True, I was happier on the lowlands, — the inmates 
of cottages are usualy happier than those of palaces, but after 
changing a <'ottage for a palace, though we groan beneath the 
yoke of woe and unceasingly praise the true comforts of the 
(!Ott;ige, we will never be content to dwell within that cottage 
again. 80, as 1 have gone far enough to mar my peace of 
mind, I will r(i'<nt\\ fame tower !"" So saying, I bowed and left 
them and resumed my journey to fame tower, and reached it 
after crossing more sti-eams, and found to my astonishment it 
was not made of Hue wrought stones but of common bricks 
plastered over; and tlu' "diamond glistening windows" were 
common glass made brilliant by the moon sliiniug on them. 

Xor was this towei- any nearer Heaven than the low- 
land cottages. 1 rang the bell. A dark porter opened the 
<loor. I entered and was shown up stairs by a boy, thence 
to a parlor where there were several persons who had just 
l)ainted their names. Among them 1 recognized Longfellow, 
Dickens, U. S. (Irant and Jesse James. I was escorted up 
totheroof; there was Ella Wheelerand WillCarleton. They 
had almost completed their task as I began painting. When 
done I turned and looked down the dizzy steep and thought 
of the joys I had bartered, and what I had gained by it — a 
painted name on the roof of the totver of fame. 



MISCELL A NKO US POEMS. 

WE COULD FORM A HEAVEN HERE. 

"Man, |)Iay not dark sorcery with thy teUow luau." 

Oh human nature is so woaU ! 
Hut tiiinlc, we're creatures of circunistnnee — 

No harm of each other sjX'ak. 
We should be kind to eacii other liere, 

Cause not a heart to hh'cd, 
!>(' tVicndly, sympatiiizini;- and fornivinii;, 

And sow the <>;oodly seed. 
Life's short. When it's over, and our Ixxlies 

Are hiid in eartli to rest, 
Then He will h)ok at (nu- souls and see 

Which is purest and best. 
But whether there's a heaven for the soul or not, 

(That there's not, many of us fear,) 
If humanity were a friendly, lovinu; family, 

We coultl form a Heaven here. 




HISTORY OF THE TABOR GRAND. 



Hon. H. A. W. Tabor, in March, 1880, purchased seven lots 
on the corner of Sixteentli and Curtis streets, and, shortly 
after, workmen began to erect the Grand Opera House. 

The architects were Messrs. Edbrooke and Burnliain, of 
Chicago. The contractors were F. N, Davis for the masonry, 
and E. Ackroyd for the stone work ; the iron work was fur- 
nished by tlu! Colorado Iron Works. The wood finish of the 
interior was done by W. Stevens of Chicago, and the re- 
mainder by G. N, Billings, this city. The building was com- 
})leted the latter part of 1882, but the Opera House was opened 
to the j)ublic on the night of the fifth of September, 1881, by 
the Emma Abbott Opera Comj)any, in "Maritana." 

This house will comfortai)ly seat 1500 persons. 

The cost of it was ,^800,000. The exterior is of i)rick 
and stone, it is Kve st(»ries in height above tlie basement and 
coveis an area of 125 feet on Sixteenth l)y 225 feet on Curtis 
street. The portico at the main entrance is grand; the two 
massive columns supporting a heavy stone entablature are of 
polished Maine granite. The hall is spacious, its floor is of 
English tiles, and it is nHifid with stained cathedral glass and 
liuhted with electric lii-lits. The interior of Opera House is 



8ti MlaCELLA AEO UAI POEMS. 

very beautiful, the wood works are cherry and ehiborately 
carved. It is thoroughly carpeted with Wilton velvet and 
Brussels carpets ; the chairs are made with folding seats, and 
upholstered with crimson velvet plush. 

There are two galleries, the family circle and l)alcony; 
dress circle and parquette, and twelve boxes — six large semi- 
circular proscenium, and six open boxes. The chandeliers, 
ornaments, walls, mirrors and all the decorations harmonize. 

In a semicircular panel, 19x32 feet, a little above the drop- 
curtain, is an oil painting of "Hector's Adieu to Andromache." 

The drop-curtain is handsome; the picture that adorns it is 
of a ruin and clearly illustrates the beautiful lines from 
Kingsley that are printed just beneath it — 

"So fleet the works cf men, buck to the earth again 
Ancient and lioly things fade like a dream." 

The stage is equipped with all modern machinery and 
appliances for operating scenery; in conection with it are 
elegantly fitted dressing rooms, green room and parlor. 

The stage is fifty feet in depth by seventy-five feet in 
width and has a clear height of sixty-two feet. 

Themanagment has been changed several times. First Mr. 
W. H. Bush, then W. S. Morse ; now Mr. Peter McCourt is its 
manager. Its ticket sellers from the first to the present — 
A. Bouvier, W. S. Morse, Lso Marix, Chas. Cameron, Phil. 
McCourt and R. B. Mays. The orchestra leaders, first Prof. 
A. Kaufman, now Prof E. O. Wolff. The programme, an at- 
tractive little book, is published by Geo. D. Betts. 

About fifty employes are constantly kept busy doing the 
work in and about the Opera House. As before said, this 
house was opened by the Abbott Opera C^impany, which held 



MWVELLA NEO US POEMS. «7 

au eugagemeiit of two weeks ; next came the Melville Opera 
Company, Fanny L. Buckingham, Rice's Evangeline Co., the 
Denver Opera Club, Joseffy, "Uncle Isaac" Co., Emmet Dra- 
matic Co., Ideal Dramatic Co., Charity Ball, Uncle Tom's 
Cabin, Baron Seeman, Salsbury's Troubadours, Alvin Joslin, 
the Lingards, K. Rogers, Atkinson's Jollities, Colorado Opera 
Club, Alice Oates, The Players, Fun on the Bristol, and several 
others, including Oscar Wilde, Janauscheck and Hazel Kirke, 
and then Lawrence Barrett came — 

And called to the Tabor Grand 

All of Denver's cultured inhabitants. 
He remained one week, and each performance 

Drew an overfull audience. 
The first he [)layed was "Richelieu," 

And the second "Yorick's Love ;" 
These plays that are a hundred grades 

All ordinary plays above. 
The third night he played "Hamlet." 

Well personated wa-; the danish prince. 
A more imjiressive actor than Barrett 

Never played here before or since. 
And the play for the fourth night was 

"Othello, the Moor of Venice," and 
He made't one of the most attractive plays 

That's been played at the Tabor Grand. 
The fifth was "Merchant of Venice" 

And "David Garrick" — a double bill. 
He made an excellent "Garrick," 

But his "Shvlock" was better still. 



S« MIUCEL L A y KO UN JfO J'JM.S. 

And at tlie Saturday matinee, 

"The Lady of Lyons" was played. 
And he and Mary Wainwright 

A fine "Melnotte" and "Pauline" made. 
And the play was for Saturday night 

That stirring tragedy, "Julius Cresar," 
And pleased with his "Cassius" were we 
As with all he personated we were. 
Then following Barrett, in close succession — Our Goblins, 
Coniley Barton Co, Charlotte Thompson, and one hundred 
and forty-two troupes have played here since, from the time 
of Charlotte Thompson engagement up to the present date, 
June 6th, 1885. Among that number were John McCul lough, 
Christine Nillsson, Patti, Gerster, Langtry, Abbott, Barrett 
and Maggie Mitchell. 

This is a general history of the Tabor Grand, and but or 
merely a general history. 

Oh, the peals of laughter, sighs and tears, 

That are mingled with its histoiy ! 
And, oh, how memory's eyes and ears 

Past things can hear and see. 
For here as I sit thinking to-night, 
My memory awakes and calls 
Some of the most delightful scenes before my sight. 

That have been within its walls. 
I can see each play that's been played, 

They slowly pass before my view ; 
Another comes when one's gone or does fade 
As the panoramic pictures do. 



THE A TRICAL POEMS. 

McCaul's 0])era Company the mirror is passing — 

Now it has })assecl ahnost. 
I hear W. T. Carleton and Signor Perugini sing, 

And too, sweet Lily Post. 

Now Lawrence Barrett as "Lanciotto" I see, 

And Louis James as "Pepe," that sinner, 
In "Francesca da Rimini;" and as ''Count Paolo" 

Comes graceful Otis Skinner. 
Now John McCul lough is playing "Virgiuius," 

With tears all eyes do fill ; 
It stirs each tender feeling within us 

When he's forced his child to kill. 
"Siberia," Bartley Campbell's brilliant play, 

Just passed — now here's Nillson, 
And there's Patti — such scenes how they 

Before fancy's eyes will run. 

There's Mrs. Langtry — here's W. E. Sheridan, 
As "Louis XI," that grim old king ; 

Here's Minnie Palmer on her fourth return, 
Playing the same old thing. 

Raymond and Nobles, the eminent comedians. 
And Maggie Mitcliel,,aged fifty-one. 

Yet looks sixteen as closely the audience scans. 
Each come before me and pass on. 

Now Emma Abbott and her sparkling company 
Are playing and singing "Faust." 

Just as Faust is happy Mephistopheles comes, 
And they sink in red flames lost. 



TIIKA TJilVA L POEMS. 

Sweet piithetic Zelda Seguin is "Siebel," 

Kin ma Abbott is sweet "Marguerite/' 
Fabrini is "Faust," Campobello is "Mephistopheles" 

And now before my sight 
Passes Signer 'J^agliapietra as "Valentine," 

With his expressive, pathetie face, 
And baritone voice, exceedingly tine — 

It for criticism leaves small space. 

All these pass in succession before me, — 

All these and several others ; 
For again I hear and see Geo. C. Miln, 

And the pantomimics, the Hanlon brothers. 

Oh, the Tabor Grand, long may it stand, 

And many may its })atrons be! 
But were it destroyed to-day, should 't in ruins lay, 

'Twould long stand in our memory. 



THEATRICAL STARS. 



When rending this poem to Irienrl.s it was remarked that they had read 
something like it before, but failed to point out the similar poem. 

//■ there t.9 or has been anything written like it— that is, comparing theat- 
rical stars to the *s. I have never read it, and my poem is perfectly original. 



Theatrical stars ! — theatrical stars, why, 

As many arc they as the *s in the sky. 

If we'd count the "stars" of earth and stars of Heaven, 

I think we'd find the numbers about even. 

That is, counting every one of the theatrical stars, 

The "have beens," "so called" and the "really ares." 



■ o-e o 



2 o » r: 
i c • „ 




Note. 

The reason I have so frequently used in this poem the "^^l'^ V^^/^^lf 
he skys stars, is, because it shortens verses; and, too, by putting the in- 
cead of the word "star,"' (meaning the stars aloft.) and using "^^;voi^ s ar 

to denote theatrical stars, it helps to more readily show winch .lar we have 

reference to.. 



THE A TRJCA L I'OEMN. i»l 

It doesn't require forethouj^ht or a scientist to detect 
That these stars and *s are alike in one respect; 
The small dim *s are many, the clear bright ones few, 
And isn't it that way with theatrical stars too? 
The illustrious ones are few, yes, in truth they 
Ax&few, that can the passions correctly portray. 

To every one * that shows aloft in brightness, 
There are hundreds that're almost lightless. 
Too, to every one eminent theatrical star. 
Hundreds of so called stars there are. 
For think of the hundreds of "half way" plays 
That are being starred or played by "half-ways." 

You know that some of the *s on high 
Sparkle so that they attract every eye, 
And especially there's always one * we see 
That surpasses all the others in brilliancy ; 
And for that they act with such clear intelligence 
There's always one star stands in pre-eminence. 

And that one, or the one that ranks foremost, 

Is Bernhardt, they say her powers of portrayal are super- 

[human almost. 
Then which ranks next, really it's hard to tell. 
There's Booth, Barrett, Irving — they each act so well ; 
Each one's faculty of imitation is so great. 
They make the most of each character they personate. 

Edwin Booth's great as Richard III, and Hamlet too, 
Lawrence Barrett's greatest as Cassius and Richelieu. 
Henry Irving's a grand Lear — so the critic tells. 



THEATHICAL POEMS. 



But I've only seeu him once, that was in The Bells. 
And now for John McCnllough a word — 
He's the greatest Virr/inius and a good Richard III. 
And of these four greatest actors of the day, 
Wliich is really the more eminent it's hard to say. 
But should we decide by ballot, I know, in sooth, 
That the majority of votes would be for Booth. 
But Barrett as to acting knows what he's about — 
He never fails to bring the true sentiment out. 
His idea as to "make ups" is so correct, and 
His portrayal of the human passions is grand. 
Booth is by the majority considered the star, yet. 
Of the four, I believe my favorite is Barrett. 
At any rate, when taking him all en tout, 
Considering everything ; but, well — chacun a son gout. 

These five stars are the brightest of the bright. 

They "shine" like the *s on the darkest night ; 

In the l)ook of theati-ical fame on the first page 

Is recorded, as the greatest stars of this age, 

Their names. And surrounding these great stars five, 

Are lesser ones, thick as the bees in a hive. 

There's Patti, Morris, E. Abbott and M. Anderson, 

Tho' not quite so great, they are stars each one. 

And there's John T. Raymond, the greatest comedian, 

If anyone can stir you to laughter he can. 

And J. K. Emmet, the greatest German warbler they say 

In the whole world, or at least in the U. S. A. 

And there's Modjeska, Wainwright and Forsythe, 
Langtry, K. Rodgers, K. Claxton and H. Blythe, 



THE A TRIG A L POEMS. !»;J 

Janauscheck, Jewett, Wilson Barrett aiul L(»tta, 
And the great George Rignold, who has not a 
Living eqnal in tlie whole world to day 
As King Henri/ 1'., and perhaps never may. 
And W. E. Sheridcn, O'Neill and Mand Granger, 
To theatre-goers neither one is a stranger ; 
Nor the great pantomiuiies, the Hanlon brothers, 
And Salvini, Rose Etynge and hundreds of others. 
They are stars, tho' not the brightest e'er seen, — 
Oh, yes, and the tragedians Sullivan and Keene. 
Those five great stars are surrounded by these, 
And others as numerous as the leaves on the trees. 
And how many stars of more or less worth 
Have fallen in death as *s foil to earth. 
But not as the *s when they cease to flame — 
Our great stars die but long lives their name. 
For instance — Forrest, Macready, Kean and Kemble 
Whose portrayals of the passions oft made the listners 

[tremble — 
All those names, and Garrick, Davenport and Cooke, 
Are recorded on the lasting leaves of fame's book. 
Though they are dead and in earth laid away, 
Their names are indelible and will ne'er fade away. 
And now here's more points I see where 
The *s and the stars do somewhat compare. 
The *s aloft shine out in splendor bright 
And they never do show only at night,—* 
They win our praise and retire through the day, 
And isn't it with actors a great deal that way? 



THE A THICAL POEMIS. 



They mostly show at night and win our praise 
And in day-time withdraw from the public gaze. 
You know we'd see no lustre to the *s in day, 
Because the day-light is brighter than they ; 
And it's somewhat that way with actors, you see, 
In day the paint shows up so plainly 
That it sort of takes off the sublimity. 
That night lends enchantment, none deny. 
To the "stars" of earth and the *s on high ; 
It sends o'er our senses beautiful, mazy dreams, 
And everything lovlier than it really is, seems. 
When daylight comes these dreams fade away 
And we see things as they are in reality. 

But we think of the beauties we saw last night. 
How charming the star, the * how bright ! 
When if in day-time we'd see that same * and star 
We'd hardly believe them the same, tho' they are. 
That their intrinsic value's the same 'tis true, 
But we can't see their lustre as at night we do. 
So they show at night and retire through the days. 
And listen to the world sounding their praise. 
So you see there's seven or eight points where 
These two kinds of stars do somewhat compare. 
And those "stars" that we praise and celebrate — 
Their lustre, nor years nor time shall obliterate! 

Whenever one falls another fills the space ; 
There's ever one ready to take the fallen one's place, 
So the number's ever 'bout the same of less and greater 

[worths. 



THJiA TRICA L POEMS. 95 

It is with the sky's stars as it is with earth's, — 
There's always 'bout the same number of *s to laud, 
And the number's ever the same of "stars" to applaud. 

I say if we'd count the stars of earth and of Heaven, 
That I think we'd find the numbers about even. 
But though the theatricals should more numerous be 
Than the *s which in the skies we see, 
We'll welcome them all — aye, welcome are they, 
For they play an essential part in life's play. 

You know that the play they play in Hamlet 
Is a very essential part to that play, and yet, 
That is only a play in a play in The Play. 
But playing a part in Life's Play are they, 
And their plays are to the Great Play what 
The play they play in "Hamlet" is to that. 

They play that the play "Hamlet" is reality. 
Then they have a stage and a play, you see, 
And enact scenes of life so real as to sting 
And catch the guilty conscience of the king. 
And some plays in life's play are so true, so real, 
That they do improve God's play a great deal. 

We're all players in Life's Play. Actors they 

Are the players of the plays in Life's Play. 

And thanks to God for these theatrical players, 

These Play-of-Life mimics or port ray ers ; 

They act an essential part in Life's Play, beyond doubt, 

And may they ever exist 'till the s* go out! 

April 17, 1S.S4. 



TIIEATUICAL POJtJM.S. 

THE PREACHER-ACTOR, 



Mr Geo. C. MIId, the Preacher-actor, 

(Whose name's recorded on the dramatic page 

As a tragedian,) shows he has good sense 
By leaving the pulpit for the stage. 



KATE CLAXTON, 



"omposed and copied between the hours of twelve and one, .just after the 
performance of the "Sea of Ice." 



Monday night, Kate Claxton, actress and fire heroine, 

Made her initial bow at 
The Tabor Grand, before a large audience. 

In the "Sea of Ice." How that 
Character of "Ogarita" is suited to her ! 

She played it to perfection. 
Her acting and make-up certainly left but 

Small spac(! for the critic's correction. 

Yes, her elocution's good, her acting fiue. 

And her make-up so nice. 
That it seems she couldn't be excelled as 

Of/arita in the "Sea of Ice." 
Her face is pretty, her form is fair, and her 

Movements grace and ease. 
They say she's fine in the "Two Orphans," 

As the blind girl "Ijouise." 

She's quite a reputation as a fire heroine. 

"We wont go to see Kate, 
For we'd be burned;" many superstitious people 

Are heard to ejaculate. 



THEATRICAL POEMS. 

But ye superstitious creatures, know ye not 
That the' the house should burn 

And you were in it, you'll never go 
Till it comes your turn ? 

If Kate's natural hair's as red as her hair is 

In her pictures 'bout town, 
I don't wonder that things catch on fire, 

That hotels are burned down, 
Where she chances to stop, for her hair 

Is enough, or, c^est a dire, 
If it's that color, that fire follows her 

It's not so very queer. 



EMMA ABBOTTAND VALENTINE FABRINI 



Emma Abbott and Valentine Fabrini, — 

It is of them sing I ; 
I've thought, and still still think of them. 

And I will tell you why. 

They are both excellent singers, and yet 
Theres something more'n that — 

There's that certain something about them, 
I can hardly tell what. 

lint that certain magnetism they possess, 

That when you them behold, 
Your heart grows warm and goes out to them. 

Be it e'er so hard and cold. 

Adeliua Patti has a full, rich voice. 
Of a clear nieiodions tone; 



THE A TRIO A L POJCALS. 

Above all other singers, like a sun or moon 
She stands way out alone. 

Her voice is pure, full, rich and grand, — 

She shows of singing the art; 
Her singing is grandest, but Abbott's does 

Truly win and warm the heart. 

For her voice is, oh, so musically sweet, 

So bird-like and so artless ; 
And, too, she is not like Patti — 

So overbearing looking and heartless. 

Of course, when we go to hear the voice, 
We shouldn't reckon in the face, — 

Yet the face's expression does help the song, 
Together with gestures of grace. 

Or, may not the tone really improve, 

But help the heart to warm ; 
For they throw a lustre over the whole 

And help the senses to charm. 

Put Abbott and Patti in a concert together, 

And Patti will surely excel ; 
But in the opera, Patti can't compare 

With Abbott, you know full well. 

For when we consider the opera — 
The singing, acting and actress 

Are all counted in towards making 
The entertainment a success. 

And Emma Abbott sings sweetly, yes, very, 
And really as to acting she 



THE A THICAL POEMS. 

Ranks inoug the stars ; as to actress, 
None much lovlier could be. 

So all these points make her more 

Attractive than Patti, thrice. 
I'd go to see her a hundred times 

Where I wouldn't Patti twice. 

I like to go to hear Patti sing, but 

Don't care to sit there long, 
For there's nothing else to feast upon 

But just barely her song. 

Aud then, Fabrini, Abbott's main support, 

Is a tenor of some renown; 
Aud he, as to singing, acting and looks, 

With her must share the crown. 

They're a perfect match, he tall, she short ; 

Models in form and size ; 
And, oh, her lovely, bewitching mouth 

And their expressive eyes! 

In my eyes they are the grandest beauties 

That e'er I've chanced to see 
Upon the stage at anytime or anywhere. 

They just exactly suit me. 

She's a lovely Martha, Arllne, — and Linda, 

She's good as that, too ; 
Her face is so sweet, and her form is 

Prettier than a Venus' statue. 

,He personates each character he takes quite well. 
His voice 'tis delightful to hear ; 



April, >4. 



TJIKA rUICA I, POKMS. 

And his lor Ill's as perfect — more perfect — 
Than that of "Ajiollo Belvidere." 

Yet many of our people sail across the ocean, 
To see "Apollo Belvidere" at Rome; 

To see that famous statue, when there is 
A living Apollo here at home. 

These artists should always appear together, 

Sucii a perfect match are they ; 
One without the other's like a jjlay without an actor. 

Or an actor without a play. 
T^he lone actor could be as talented a man. 

The not played play as rich a gem; 
But they show off better when both together ; 

And it's that way with them. 
( )f course, they're not the greatest singers 

In the world ; but then, 
As siu-e as you go to see them once. 
You're bound to go again. 

Away with Patti, Nillsou, Gerster, Kellogg, 

Signors Del Puente and Viciui ; 
My favorites of all these great singers are 

Emma Abbott and Valentine Fabrini. 

TWO PATHETIC FACES 

The two most truly pathetic faces 

That I have seen anywhere yet, — 

Either ujiou or oif the stage, 

Are those of Seguin and Barrett. 



TllMA TJiJVA L I'OKMS. 

I've ot'teu cried at seeing Zelda Seguin, 

Tlio' I'm deaf and could scarcely hear 

Her song; but that face was enough 
To bring to my eyes the tear. 

And, too, Lawrence Barrett always wears 
That intelligent-sad expression. 

I'd like to see his "Lanciotto" — beardless, 
Full fifty nights in succession. 

For, oh, that face, that pathetic face, 
Would move a stone to tears ; — 

His sad, despairing smile one couldn't forget. 
Should they live a hundred years. 



A BOUQUET OF ACTRESSES. 



"Oh, what shall I do to-day," I said ; 

"Tell me something, for I hardly know 
Wliat to do to pass away these hours. 

That are dragging by so slow." 

"Wait," says I, "a thought has struck me, 

And shown me how to pass these hours, — 

I'm going straightway to arrange a bouquet." 
Said she, "Where'll you get the flowers?" 

"No, it's going to be made of actresses. 

I'll call them up and sort them over; 
For I'm going to have a great bouquet of 

Lovely flowers, grass, weeds and clover. 

I'm going to compare them to weeds and flowers. 
According to looks, and to sentiment; 



THMATKICAL POEMH. 

So I'll think them over well, and see 

Which the weeds and flowers do represent. 

I'll select only those actress of to-day, 

So everybody at a glance'll know 'era." 
So saying, I began to arrange my bouquet. 

As you'll see in the following poem. 
I suited each actress to a flower or weed ; 

Thought they couldn't be better suited no way. 
Of course I couldn't bring the originals together, 

So I bound them in an imaginary boquet. 

I began with a large white calla lily 

As Mrs. Langtry, or to represent her, 

For I wanted a great stately flower 
To begin with, to form the center. 

Then a glowing poppy I placed next to her. 

And that as to looks was Roschelle. 
Then a blade of grass for Phosa McAllister, 

And she was represented well. 
And mignonette, as to sentiment, for Clara Morris, 

And a cockle flower for Kate Castleton. 
The next a dandelion for Julie Rosewald, 

And for Januscheck, meadow saffron. 

Then a wild rose for Maggie Mitchell. 

And thought that well suited were those. 
Then as to looks for Adelina Patti 

I bound in a crimson rose. 

Next a blue flag for Rose Keene, 

As to looks ; and then tiie great "I am" 



THE A TJiICA L POEMIS. 103 

Pomegranate, for looks and sentiment, 

To represent Fanny Louise Buckingham. 

A aweet forget-me-not for Zelda Seguin. 
White violets for Viola Allen, and some 

Cypress for K. Rogers, were bound in, 
And, too, for her, oak geranium. 
Then for Christine Nillson, a magnolia, 

And a marigold for Alice Harrison. 
A primrose for Marie Stone, and for 

M'lle Rhea, potato blossoms, one. 
A tulip for Rose Etyuge. For Minnie Palmer 

A daisy. Then thought I, oh, what a 
Lovely, large bouquet I've formed ; and then 

Added a touch-me-not for Lotta. 

A star-eyed pansy for Minnie Maddern. 

Then what next — I'll — let me see — 
For Lily Post I'll choose a snow ball, 

And a burr weed for Kate A. Beebe. 

Then a tiger lily for Minerva Guernsey, 

White dahlia for Marie Anderson. Then I 

Added a carnation pink for Lizzie Anandale, 
And honey suckles for Nellie McHenry. 

Then a bunch of verbenas for Fannie Davenport, 

And then I thought — oh, yes, say 
I choose for Effie Eisner a sensitive plant. 

And a trumpet flower for Modjeska. 
Then for Marie Wainwright a lovely irhite rose. 

And then the favorite flower of mine, 



THKA TliICA L POEAW. 

A full-blown blush rose for Emma Abbott. 

F'or Kate Claxton, white and yellow jasmine. 

Then I paused to see what next to add to it, 

For I wanted to get all I could in 
So at next thought I added purple lilac 

To represent Mrs, N. C. Goodwin. 

And now my boquet was growing so large 

It only needed one more to fill it. 
So to my imaginary boquet I added more 

Mignonette for Mittens Willet. 

And what — wliat flower for Sarah Bernhardt ? 

There's none for her — no none — 
To represent her 'twould take a whole boquet. 

She could be represented by no one. 

For if she is as great as people say, 

And so vividly the passions expressed, 

She could only be represented by the boquet. 
She's a whole boquet of Actresses. 

So I deemed then my boquet was complete. 

But on looking, or thinking it over, 
I found Charlotte Thompson was left out, 

And added for her red clover. 

'Twas done! and I wondered could anybody 
Make of actresses a better boquet oi' flowers. 

Perhaps so — for 1 took no time to think. 

Comparing and arranging, I was only two 

[hours. 



THKA TRIL'A L POEMS. 105 

IMPROMPTU TO MARIE WAINWRIGHT. 



The "white rose" beauty, Marie Waiiiwright, — 
Could she have seen herself last night, 

As the large find cultured audience saw her, 
As she appeared before thera, 
Lovely as the rarest gem, 

(Yet no gleaming jewels adorned her,) 
I think she would have paused and gazed, 
Enchanted with her beauty, and amazed 

To see how perfectly she could represent 
The famed enchantresses or beauties of old, 
That're carved in marble, cameo and gold ; 

And agrectl with mc for making this comment. 
A perfect Julie de Mortemar she made ; 
Each detail she correctly portrayed. 

A fine support she was to Barrett's Richelieu. 
And 'twill be many days ere we Denverites will see 
Another actress so intelligent and beautiful as she. 

Those who can surpass — even equal her — avefew. 

August 7, 18S4. 

JOHN McCULLOUGH. 



The good principled, ambitious McCullough, 
The friendless Irish boy, McCullough, 
The seventeen year old boy, McCullough, 
The physically, almost perfect type of manhood. 

He left Ireland, his birthplace, liis home. 

Straight to our United States to come. 

To the land of the independent and the free, 



i THE A TRIVAL POEMS. 

And soon landed in Philadelphia was he. 

While wandering 'bout in search of employment, he came 

Across an uncle, by as his the same name. 

And with this uncle for some time he stayed, 

And became an apprentice to the wool-working trade. 

And while devoting his evenings to study, he sought 

Out congenial companions for himself, as he ought, 

And who were, like himself, ever bent 

Or ever striving towards self-improvement. 

A member of an amateur dramatic club he became, finally, 

And here he attracted the attention of intelligent critics, by 

His histrionic ability undoubted, the making of him came 

[thus— 

Forrest secured him, as he saw in liim great genius. 

As Forrest's support he creditably filled the place. 

Forrest died; and McCullough strove to fill that space. 

But though he exerted his powers, nor gave himself a rest. 

He never exactly reached the height of great P]dwin For- 

[rest. 

When 'bout twenty, he loved a girl with a pretty face; 

He married her, and as often is the case. 

She with his intellectual growth couldn't keep pace. 

After he was married, soon his troubles began. 

They drifted farther and farther apart as the mismated 

[only can. 
Poor, persevering John McCullough, 
Genial, whole-souled John McCullough, 
The eminent tragedian, McCullough, 
Now in the Bloomingdale x4.sylum, hopelessly insane. 



THE A TRICAL POEM.S. 



One of the notable incidents in McCullongh's career: 
He has a sister who is to hini most dear ; 
When he went upon the stage 'twas a shock to her, 
For she thought that a bad lot. tiiose phivers were, 
And so she ahnost witJidrew from him her heart. 
And for years he and she were drifting apart. 
She married, and a fa^nily around her collected 
In a nice country home, but all unexpected, 
Misfortune came and turned her out of home, 
And she had to get her living as it would come. 
Wlien those facts to McCul lough's hearing came, 
They burned the player-man's heart as a flame, 
And he went back to Ireland, and when 
He bought for his sister her home again. 
And furnished it better than it e'er had been yet, 
She dropped the idea that actors were a bad set, 
xlnd that person from lier had best be miles away 
Who'd now dare a word 'gainst players to say. 

Oh, good, congenial John McCuUough, 
The once eminent, now insane McCullough, 
The ambitious, persevering McCullough. 
Must his life bo blighted— his hopes ne'er be relighted ? 

July 2(i, 1885. 

DEAD. YET NOT DEAD. 

A notice in tiiis morning's paper said 

"John McCullough, the actor, is dead." 

Dead ?— No, not dead yet ; 

Long years must pass ere we forget ! 
. Not Dead while one who's seen him survives; 
Not dead while the Roman Father lives. 



Il* THE A TRW A L POKMIS. 

Till tails Virginius, he does not fall ; 
Oh, he was "the noblest Roman of them al 
He can't be dead, I see him now ; 
His stately form, and genial brow. 

Can it be true what the papers said ? 
No, no, — he died, but is not dead ! 

Xoveniber (t, 1X8.5, 



\m9(f^.- 



— I 

D01V[E^TI(]an(10T[lEI(pOEM^.*| 



-To Aunt Abbie. 



FIERCE YET FORBEARING. 



One lowering April day in the year '81, 

Little Dan flew into a tantrum. 
He'd asked sister's opinion on something he'd done. 

She'd jestingly answered, "It's all right — ahum !" 

Each time he'd asked her, she gave a reply 
Such as — "ah, yes — ah, yes, indeed." 

She'd answ^er him, while gazing at the sky, 

As though paying to his question no heed. 

He begged her to answer his question fair ; 

Said he, "Now sister, come, 
Don't turn up your nose and vacantly stare. 

And answer me with — *ah, yes — or ahum !' 

My question is fair — now answer it pleasantly, 
Now will you or won't you, Clarie?" 

But she vacantly stared ; so presently 
He begau to raise the "Old Harry." 

In a terrible rage he flew at her 

And held both of her hands f;ist. 
Their ma came to see what was the matter. 

And cried, "Children, hold! avast!" 



nu UOMEHTICANV 

That she'd uot have it — this raising "Old Ned/^ 

She wasn't at all slow to aver. 
Then in the very heat of anger, Dan said, 

"Oh ! I'd kill her if I thought it wouldn't hurt 

[her!" 

April (), 1884. 

A LETTER FROM THE OLD FOLKS. (NO. i.i 



He gentle to the old folks, 

O spirits strong and young, 
Nor let them be forgot 

Like songs no longer sang.— Ethel Lynn. 



In a lovely little cottage 

In a large and thrifty city, 

There together dwelt three sisters. 
Good in heart — in face, pretty. 

They attended balls and theatres, 
Went somewhere every night ; 

And for some time had neglected. 
To the old folks to write. 

And one day just as Gertie 

Was all ready to go up town. 

Came the mail man with a letter. 
Near the fire sat down ; 

Called in sisters Kate and Hattie, 
Threw her muff upon the floor. 

Sister Hattie came stood behind her 
Sister Kate sat down before. 

And then she tore the letter open, 
Drew forth a fools-cap sheet ; 

'Twas a letter from the old folk, — 
Every page was filled complete. 



OTHER POAMK 

Katie kissed aud held the envelope, 

Hattie stood with eager ear, 
Behind her there, with fluttering heart, 

Waiting the welcome words to hear. 

Then sister Gertie began to read it. 

"Dear children" — as expected, 
Ran the letter, "have you forgotten us, 

Or why to write have you neglected? 

Oh, darlings, we long to hear from you. 

Your parents, old and grey, 
Bowed down with age, toil and grief, 

Have waited so patiently 

To hear from you ; yet not a word, 
Not even a word in haste, — 

As if the time you'd take to write 
Were that much time to waste. 

Think how we've loved and still love you. 

Every breath we breathe's a prayer 
That God will guide your uu weary feet, 

Aud keep your hearts from care. 

We know the ways of the world, dears. 
Of the traps that're laid to ensnare, — 

To lead you to ruin and shame, dears, 
And we pray you'll ne'er fall there. 

Heed not the advic^e of the young folks, 
Who gather 'round you to-day. 

They have no thought for your future fate, 
They only make your pastime gay. 



liOMKsriC A\l> 



But you ciui't overvalue the friendship of 

The old folks, tried and true, 
Who, ever since the day of your birth, 

Have loved and cared for you. 

Who many a time when you were young. 

Have knelt in silent prayer — 
Asked God to protect our treasured ones — 

Prayed for your future welfare. 

Don't turn from us, or now that we're old, 

To our counsel pay no heed ; 
Don't think because you're grown up, you have 

Of our love and care no need. 

But while we live, heed our counsel, 

We'll ne'er advise you wrong, 
And write us a letter, for you know that 

We'll be laid in earth ere long. 

Don't scribble a few unheartfelt words, 
Our poor old hearts to grieve — 

That you care for us — that we're not forgotten, 
At least try and make us believe." 

Then Gertie rose and laid the letter 

On the centre table nigh, 
Stepped to the writing desk and drew forth 

Pen and paper, with a sigh. 

Hattie stood there lost in thought and 

Katie sat gazing on vacancy. 
They were thinking of their dear })arents, 

Of the old folks far awav. 



OTHER POEMS. 

For some time they all were .silent, 
Then Hattie the sileuee broke. 

Sister Hattie was the oldest. 

Thus she to the others spoke : 

"Let us write a good long letter, 
Send it on the evening mail. 

Not let tlieni think that they're forgotten, 
Like an old and worthless tale. 

Nor let them think that we heed not 
Their advice and counsel wise, 

But prove to them we love them still. 
Though age has dimmed their eyes. 

So, sisters, we'll write to them to-day, 

A letter to that effect. 
Show that the reason we've not written before 

Was simply through neglect. 

That we kept putting oif till to-morrow 
That whicii we should do to-day. 

'To-night we'll dance — to-morrow we'll write.' 
So days and weeks glided away. 

That they're forgotten because they're old, 

We'll tell them to expel 
From their hearts all such thoughts. 

For we love them and heed their counsel. 

Yes, we'll deny ourselves to our \oung friends, 
With their laughter and their jokes, 

Long enough to write, and from this time on 
We'll promptly write to the old folks." 

May 1. 1H8I. 



1 1 1 DOMESTIC A XU 

A LETTER FROM THE OLD FOLKS. iNO. 2. 



Oh, won't we have a fine time though, 
When father and mother a visiting go, 
To stay two or three months or so! 

We'll have things our way; 
We'll gather all the young folks we know, 

And have high times each day. 

And then 'twill be so nice, you see, 
W^hen we the predominators may be. 
We'll feel like prison birds set free, 

Or like genuine kings. 
Or the happy ruling cock, when he 

Crows and flaps his wings. 

But their parents now have been gone 
One month and a part of another one, 
And the old folk's true value they readily own. 

And from this time forth, 
They'll never be anxious to be left alone. 

They've learned parents' worth. 

A letter from the old folks, how welcome. 

Saying that they soon will be home. 

The youths can hardly wait till they come, 

But hurried them to go. 
They thought that chains they'd be free from, 

But found it wasn't so. 

We should never wish to have them leave us, 
Nor for a day of their company bereave us, 
For they — and, oh, how it will grieve us — 
God knows, go soon enough. 



O THER POEMS. 1 1 

And without those — stars — oh, conceive us 
On a dismal path and rough. 

We often grumble and sigh — oh. dear ; 
If we had the management of this sphere 
Things would be as they should be here. 

Cool summers and wintei's warm, 
Things growing, flowers blooming, the whole year, 

And never a hateful storm. 

But I guess we'd soon own that He could 
Do the overseeing better'n what we could, 
And know tliat He does all that he should. 

Summers warm and winters cool. 
And there's no doubt but that we would 

Be content to let Him rule. 



A SENTIMENT IN PROSE. 

"Ble.ssed is every one that feareth the Lord.' 
"Can rage and justice join in the same path ?'— Byron. 

I remember — how those things come back to my mind to- 
night — when ma and I were visiting with friends at Pueblo 
Colorado, how, as we were riding around the town one after- 
noon, we were passing a tent where there were swarms of 
children — poor, dirty, half starved looking little creatures — 
when our friends .said, "That is a large family, isn't it?" 

We could scarcely credit what they said, when they told us 
that they all belonged there. 

We went to the tent door, pretending to want a drink, and 
asked how many of those children were hers. Said she, (the 
woman of the tent,) "Thar all mine,tharsonly nineteen of 'em." 



liti UOMKSTIV ASD 

We asked if she was the own mother of them all. ''Yes, I 
told yer oust thar all mine." Then she yelled out to oue of 
them, "Come in, yer lazzy slipshod, an' hang out them clothes." 
A girl of about twelve came in. She caught her by the hair 
and whirled her across the room — the miserable wretch ; and 
the brutal, lazy wretch of a daddy was lying out under a 
tree, taking a— siesta. Well, I thought, — if there is a hell, 
hereafter, that father and mother will find a home in the 
very centre of it! Oh, oh ; what is worse than to bring a lot 
of poor little creatures into the world to be kicked and 
knocked about, and wear out their miserable lives, working 
for a crust of bread, and perhaps to swing on the gallows at 
last? For their poor hearts become so hardened, from being 
kicked about, that they think of nothing but wickedness. 

But those parents must answer for the sins of all of their 
nineteen children. There was no necessity for bringing them 
into creation, but as they have done so they must answer for 
that sin. Some people say, "Why, a sin to bring children into 
the world?" Yes, a sin, unless we provide for them and teach 
them 7-ight from wrong. I know that whipping and tortur- 
ing children makes fiends of them, it so hardens their better 
feelings. Then what a wretched way it is to bring a child 
up through fear — to fear his parents, to fear his God; as 
though a person could be noble, fearing the very ones they 
should not fear but love. Who can love the one they fear? 
None. Instead of teaching their children to love them and 
make them mind by gentle force, by love, they teach them to 
mind by punishment. They use wrath instead of love, and 
instead of teaching them that God is love they teach them and 
preach to them of God's wrath, that they must obey him 
through fear, not love ; then that either hardens their souls or 
makes spaniels of them, crawling, sneaking around through 



OTHER POEMS. 



fear of their master. I've often heard parents say to their 
ehiklren, ''You must U)veGod, for he'll send you to hell if you 
don't, and beware the wrath of God, and live in the fear of 
God." It cannot be done, to /owe anything through /ear — that 
we're afraid of. Do we love a tiger, a panther, a hyena, or 
anything we fear? No. We love the sweet, gentle, little 
lambs, the horses, the birds, etc., — something we do not fear. 
The same way with dumb animals. They do not love us 
when we're ugly towards them. They love the master that 
is kind and gentle — that they think loves them. True they 
will obey us when we use wrath, but they hate us. For my 
part I never, never want to, moreover, never will, go to a 
heaven where a God sits like an overbearing king, and rules 
or governs his subjects by the rod, or wrath ; where we must 
cringe and crouch about like whipped curs, simply because 
He is the ruler of all, l)ecause he created us. 



A DAINTY PIG. 



October 5, 1S.SI. 



Hattie was showing how she would eat, 
(Before she went to Boston, a while. 

To board a week at a popular hotel), 
And how she'd put on the style. 

'Twas dinner — and she was showing 
How dainty she'd eat when there. 

She sat erect, looked dainty, tossed her head. 
But her brother began to stare. 

To see the vituals disappearing so fast. 
He wore a look of sarcastic fatigile. 

She said ''Won't they think I'm dainty V 

Said he, "They'll think you're a dainty pi< 



l>OMJt:iSTIC AND 

EXACTLY AS IT IS. 



This tells of the good heartedness 

Of my cousin Justina, 
As related to me 

By my dear Alexina. 

Nearly every day three little girls would come 
To beg bread for their grandma, 

Whom they supported by begging. 
They had no ma nor pa. 

They lived in a miserable hovel, 

Each pretty, with hair in curls. 
Justina's heart was touched with pity 

For those three little beggar girls. 

But Aunt C — 's heart was pitiless. 

She cared not for their want. 
And when she'd see them at her door, 

She'd say, ''Begone ! avaunt !" 

One day, at table set with luxuries, 

Justina began to cry. 
And then that those tears should flow. 

Aunt and uncle questioned why. 

Said she, "1 was thinking of those girls ; 

They don't have enough of bread and meat, 
While we sit at the table set with 

More luxuries than we can eat." 

Then aunt she looked at uncle. 

And uncle he looked at aunt, 
Then said, "We haven't more'n we can eat ; 

Go without one luxury we can't." 



MTU EH POEMS. 

That they would feed those beggar girls, 

She pleaded with her ma; 
And when she refused to do so, 

She pleaded with her })a. 

^'To give to those poor girls" said she, 
"I'd he willing to go without lialf 

Of my share of the eatables." 

Then uncle couldn't help but laugii. 

Said he "Well then, Justina, 

We'll feed them for your sake ; 

We'll give them the halj you go without. 
What for dinner will you take?" 

"Well," said good hearted Justina, 
"Some soup, some poached eggs. 

Boiled ham, potatoes, peas, roast beef, 
And couple of chicken legs ; 

And cup of coffee, bread and butter, 
A hot roll, dish of tomato stew. 

Fruit cake, coconut drops, ice cream, 

Nuts, raisins, and glass of wine or two. 

Uncle, he winked at aunt and said, 
"She's a generous hearted child. 

She'll go without all but what she named, 
Of the luxuries on the table piled." 

She took care that she named all, — more 
Than she could possibly devour. 

The rest she'd give to the little girls, 
That she pitied so every hour. 



VOMENTICAJSl) 



Self-preservation is the first law of nature ; 

None ever disputed this. 
No matter how good hearted are we, this sketch 

Portrays humanity exactly as it is. 

SCHOOL DAYS. 

Too soon we are grown aged with a life of care and pain. 
Too soon we miss tlie laugliter tiiat will never sound again. 
Too soon we weep for other days, when love was young and fair. 
Too soon we trace the silver threads atnong the golden hair. 
Too soon we view a phantom bark drift o'er a mighty main 
Into the brightness of the other— where ? 

Alas! too soon !—^i. W- CrowelL. 

Farewell, farewell, schooldays, — alas! how rapidly time flies. 
That each moment is shortening- our stay, we hardly realize. 
We scarcely stop to think that time is fleeing so fast. 
Till our bright days are fled into the irredeemable past. 
On, on we go, each moment shortening our earthly stay. 
Putting off till to-morrow what we should do to-day. 
Ever striving on regardless of our coming fate. 
Never prizing the happy hours till 'tis — too late. 
Yet, how rapidly time flies, we hear it in every song, 
And we see the aged around us unsteadily creeping along. 
Alas ! those school days are gliding further and further away. 
E'en now I see them traveling on in the arms of yesterday. 
Perhaps this day holds a joy that we'll not prize till gone. 
We think not of the passing pleasures, till like a tree, deso- 

[late and lone. 
We then remember our "verdant leaves," how they fell, one 

[by one, to decay. 
And they look lovlier than they were, through the mists of 

[yesterday. 
Strange we never prize the present ; yet, 'tis that way. 
We prize not the great till gone — then they're Gods in our 

[memory. 



i)THER POEMS. 



Last eve I met an old school-mate — Josie Baden — 

She and I matured women, with stories sorrow laden, 

Of life's journey this far. We on the play grounds use to play, 

Each happy in our childish way. 

That the future could be clouded, we had no expectatiou. 

We built air castles to be destroyed by time that awaits nol 

[our dictation. 
We talked of th(! joys and sorrows of the past. 
And especially of the joys that glided by too fast. 
We talked of the grammar class, and how we tried to talk 

[correct, 
And of the geography and reading classes. Well I recollect 
How we young elocutionists — especially Hiram Hall — 
Would read without catching a breath, ne'er a rise nor fall, 
No matter how long the paragraph or what the sentiment 

[might be. 
He never stopped at any pause — those marks he didn't seem 

[to see. 
And poems, oh, 'twas terrible, no matter how sublime. 
He never thought of the sentiment, but just the rhyme. 
One day in winter, when white with snow was the ground, 
Our lesson chanced to be that lovely poem, "Snow-bound," 
And the first verse was read by Master Hiram Hall. 
W^e knew what he was reading or else we wouldn't have known 

[at all. 
He read it through in a sing-song tone, the scholars beating 

[time, 
H(! stopped short at the end of each line — to be sure and 

[make it rliynie. 

"The moon above tlie eastern loood, 
Shone at its full, the hill-range stood. 
Transfigured in the silver //ooc/. 



122 DOMESTIC A ND 

Its blown shows flashiDg cokl and keen. 
Dead white save where some sharp rayme, 
Took shadow, or the sombre green, 
Of hemlock turned to pitchy black, 
Against the whiteness of their back." 

This was his style of emphasizing; — another read the next 

[verse — 

"Shut in from all the world without, 
We sat the clean winged hearth about, 
Content to let the north wind roar 
In baffled rage at pane and door." 

And still another read the third like this — 

•'The house dog on his paws oit^spread 
Laid to the fire his droiosy head." 

Hiram was a poor elocutionist, and so were we all, 

But a number one good boy, was Master Hiram Hall. 

Then we talked of our history class and philosophy class, 

(1st A), 
And the arithmetic class, and of the plays we use to play, 
And of our schoolmates, and how kind our teacher use to be; 
And I could see them all as in reality. 
Most of them are grown, some of them are dead, 
And laid away to sleep for aye in their narrow bed ; 
Nor heed where they lie, how cold or warm's the weather. 
And we thought of all these things as we talked together. 
We thought of our happy days, and of all we could recall, 
Our shool days were the happiest of them all. 



OTHER POEMS. 123 

THAT DEATH-WATCH AND DREAM. 



"Ay, but to die, and go, alas ! 

Where all have gone, and all must go. 
To be the nothing that I was 

Ere born to life and living woe."— JSymn. 



I'm not of a superstitious turn of mind, 

But then I think — I know 
Tliat that death-watch ticked to tell us 

When we would have to go. 
That was four years ago, or about, — 

You heard it as well as I ; 
That it should tick in the book-case, 

We couldn't then oucss why. 

To-day it all became clear to my mind ; 

Somethino; seemed to say — look 
At the book-case, think of that death-watch. 

Remember now your book ! 
So I interpreted, or drew the conclusion, 

That't meant no less nor more 
Than that I, or both of us, must die. 

When my book is done, or before. 

Oh, it weighs too heavy not to be true ; 

Yet why should't've ticked at all ? 
To point out our death-time and to throw 

O'er our remaining days a pall! 
I see old Time with watch and scythe, 

He's Hearing day by day ; 
Just because I now really want to live, 

He's bound he'll take me awav. 



DOMESTIC A ND 

That 1 will never go alone I know, 

For we as one have grown; 
And when old time comes after me, 

He'll have to mow us both down. 
O, dismal death ! — yet if that dream 

Were anything like true, 
I then, God knows, would want to go, 

And take you with me, too ! 

I dreamt that you and I and Dolph 

Were taking a buggy ride ; 
We came to a horrible rough road 

In a lane not five yards wide. 
We had to keep going straight ahead 

For to turn there wasn't the space, 
At the end of the lane there was 

A stream and awful rutty place. 

And when we came to the very edge 

Of that dark, black-water stream, 
We could see no road on the other side. 

Dolph was frightened, with a scream 
He jumped from the back of the buggy ; 

The horses then took fright, 
And threw you and I into that deep water. 

And all was dark as night! 

We sank, sank down in dismal darkness, 

Lower, still, still lower! 
Till we, it seemed, were lifeless; 

And then I dreamt uo more. 
The day was very bright and beautiful. 

When after that dream I woke. 



OTHER POEMS. 

Perhaps there's a loiioj bright day for us, 
Wlien we throw off life's heavy yoke. 

Perhaps all life is merely a dream, 

And when we die we awake ; — 
Oh, if there is a happy reality awaiting, 

God wake us, for mercy's sake ! 
But whether there is or whether there isn't, 

I know that I and you. 
In a short time will have to go — 

If that death-watch told us true. 



September 30, lS8r,. 



A VERY RARE CASE. 



"Frank Saunders, the inventor of the parlor rowing machine, committed 
suicide tliis morning by shooting himself over the remains of his wife. 

Mrs. .maunders liad been an invalid from the birth of her last child, twelve 
years ago." 



Yes, 'twas a very rare case ; 

More exalting than sad ! 
INIany men when wife dies, 

Are as you might say — glad. 

If the average man's wii'e 

Becomes an invalid, of course 

The first thing he thinks of 
Is to get a divorce. 

Siie is worthless to him. 
His love from her flies, 

And he chooses another 
And breaks the old ties. 



12ti DOMESTIC AND 

When siok, feeble aud tmled, 

Her attractioDs fall ; 
And she is like the — blind steed, 

"Kicked from the stall." 

Twelve years had Frank ISannders 
Nobly cared for and loved 

His poor invalid wife; 

And himself a man proved! 

October 29, 1S85. _ 

DEAR AUNTJULIA BROWN 



A trner, more unselfish heart, 

No human ever possesed, 
Thau that good heart which lay 

Within aunt Julia's breast. 
She wasn't so handsome to behold, 

Was beautiful to but few ; 
The noble few that love for heart, 

Not face so fair to view. 

She was happiest when she 

('ould make another glad. 
'Tseenis she but lived for others good ; 

No selfish thought she had. 
Oh, how she used to sit and build 

Great castles in the air. 
She planned them for the good of other.' 

And they were wondrous fair. 

Yes, ever caring for others welfare, — 
Dear good aunt Julia Brown ! 

She did what real good she could ; 
Her air castles all fell down. 



OTHER POEMS. 

She tried all her life-time to make 
A borne for her relatives all, 

But when she barely got cue for herself, 
Grim old Death did eall. 

She died; and in the cold grave, 

They laid her form to lot, 
And all the kind deeds she did 

Are, save by a few, forgot. 
No towering monument is raised 

Above her form, to say 
How noble was the heart that 'neath 

Is turning back to clay. 

She were not dead, — had I the power — 

Did such to me belong, 
I'd sound her praises — yes, she should 

Live in immortal song. 
I often look at the evening star. 

Casting it's bright rays down ; 
And as I look, it seems that it 

Is dear aunt Julia Brown. 



'M DEAF. 



'•But if I jiiust alllicted be, 

To suit soiiio wise deslKn ; 
Then man my soul with rirm resolves 
To bear and not repine." —Jiurns. 



They might wrangle or fight while I sit and write, 

And their clatter I couldn't hear. 
Of their walking around, or of talking, no .sound, 

'Less to me thev chance to be near. 



DOMESTIC A Nl> 

So I'm thankful, you see, tlitit you don't bother me. 

That I'm deaf I don't think't a pitv ; 
For everythinji; is quiet wherever I am at, 

Thouoh wranirling; were half the city. 

Mv foe's sneers and jeers scarcely trouble my ears, 

Nor the buzz of the busy crowd. 
But praises — you suppose that I hear those ? 

No, — 'less spoken near and loud. 

Then, beinji; deaf, too, helps me to read folks tlirough 

For straight into their eyes I look, 
So's to see what they say ; and think what you may, 

I can read them as well's a book. 

The only time I worry, or that I'm deaf am sorry, 

Is when to see Booth or Barrett 
I go, or some good company, of course then I 

Would love to hear while thereat. 

Yet why so ? For really I know 

What they're saying all the time; 
For nearly every one's part I know all by heart. 

Of those Shakespearian plays sublime. 

That all're kinder to me, some say, "can it be?" 
'Tis so — to my friends I'm more dear. 

All are more kind to the crippled, deaf ov blind, 
Lest they'll make their lot more severe. 

Or, no, I forgot, there are some that' re not, — 

Exceptions to all rules of course. 
But who sneers or ridicules are "smart alicks" or fools, 

And so I consider the source. 



OTHER POEMS. 129 

They may throw out ohiitt', or titter and laugh, 

Or say what they please, anything — , 
Wink or shrug they may, let 'em titter away, 

They could never my feelings sting. 

I'm sure I won't perplex those of either sex 

Who have a heart and a mind. 
They'll speak loud and plain, or their speech repeat again 

With pleasure, the naturally refined. 

So, $b^ their pleasant talk 1 hear, and when near, 

All kinds of music quite well. 
Birds ill near trees, piano, orchestra, all these, 

And the operatic singer right well. 

The wind's low wail that makes cheeks grow pale. 

For sad thoughts it does stir — 
It makes the heart ache, bids sleeping sorrows wake 

Till you feel them again as they were. 

I hear not such sounds — my heart with joyyi^bounds 

For that they don't enter my ears. 
I hear them no more, but oft heard them before 

I was deaf, in my earlier years. 

Deafness's an affliction, yet I nor grumble nor fret 

For that that affliction's mine. 
No, I patiently drink — for't helps, so I think, 

To carry out some great design — 

My cup or share I patiently drink or bear; 

To grumble, how foolish 'twould be ! 
Each must play their |)art, so with a light heart 

1 play the part that's given to me. 



DOMESTIC AND 



Thus I will play it through and bethaukt'ul, too, 

If to be crippled, dumb or blind 
Never falls to my lot, and will sigh not, 

Nor blame Him who all designed. 



November 5, 1885. 



THE ROOTS OF MY TREE EXTEND THERE. 



I noticed my neighbor every afternoon 

Watering a portion of my yard. 
Thought 1, well, such kindness as that 

Certainly should have a reward. 

So the next p. m., when she came out to water, 
I went out and spoke to her — 'cause 

I couldn't keep from complimenting her kindness, 
And 1 thought it real kindness was. 

But she looked at me and smiled. 

Tossed her head with a sarcastic air. 
And said, "I water your yard because 

The roots of my tree extend there." 

BROTHER DOLPH. 

When you are grown, how I wish to see 

You, Dolph, as fine a man as men can be. 

I hope you'll be handsome, strong and tall ; 

But then, looks, strength and height is'nt all 

That it does require or take, 

A genuine or noble man to make. 

You might be handsome, and your height 

And strength might be just about right, 



OTHER POEMS. 131 

But if you possessed a \vieked heart. 

You'd surely be hwking the greatest part. 

So, brother, wheu you go into tiie world, be a man. 

Do every good and noble act you can. 

Ere you are grown, perhaps I may 

Sometime before be laid away, 

But remember my words — be good and true. 

No matter what troubles may come to you ; 

Though your lot be poor and you battle with strife, 

Be honest and u})right through all your life. 



TOO SENTIMENTAL. 

"My son, run down to the hardware store," 
Said a mother, "quick as you can ; 

Breakfast's all ready but frying the meat. 
And I must have a new frying pan. 

The old ones are all cracked and rough ; 

It's time they were thrown away. 
I've used them for twenty long years, 

And I'll have some new ones to-day. 

So hurry down to the hardware store, 

And buy me frying pans, two. 
You look as though you thought me wasteful, 

But they're twice as old as you." 

"But, ma, they've served you long and well; 

You've used them many a year, 
Now 'cause they're cracked and old, can yon 

Throw 'em away without shedding a tear?" 



132 DOMESTIC AND 

"Oh, nousense, go on to the store, boy, 
What makes yoa look so blue ?" 

"Oh, ma," pleaded he, with pathetic looks, 

"Yon shouldn't change the old for the new." 

April (), 1884. 

ONLY A DIRTY DISH RAG. 



This poem was not written witli any intention of injuring the trade of 
meat markets. 



'Twas with a dirty dish rag 

The cook was washing the pot. 

Cook was in a big hurry. 

And the dish rag she forgot. 

She filled in the sparkling water; 

Then in the beans she threw, 
And a little .salt, and then 

Ov^er the pot the cover drew. 

vShe sighed, "There is no meat 

To cook with the beans to-day ; 

I'll season 'em well with pepper and salt. 
And we'll eat them that way." 

When the beans were all done, 

The cover oif she drew ; 
Seasoned and tasted them and said, 

"Ah, this is a splendid stew. 

I think the taste is as rich 

As it has been any day; 
I'll use no more meat with beans, 

But always cook 'em this way." 



OTHER POEMS. 



When the family luid eaten of tliein, 
Aiul were about all done, 

They pulled out a boiled dish ra*; — 
An awful dirty one. 

They tried to throw their dinner up. 

Cook .said, "Keep it down, by all 
It wont hurt you, 'tis only 

The dish ra^r eooked in the beans. 



means. 



TO MY LITTLE NIECE, MYRTLE RUTH. 

•'And when wo bid adieu to youth, 
Shives to the .specious world's control, 

We sigh a long farewell to truth. 
That world corrupts the noblest soul.'"— 7i.vro/i. 

There's another soul all undefiled, 

Lately ushered into this world. 
Like a sweet, pink ro.se-bud wild, 

With leaves not yet unfurled. 
Another human has come to live 

Among us, to be our foe or friend. 
To toil, to grieve, to ask or to give. 

And to win a grave at the end. 

Poor little slave of eireuinstanee! 

May that master be kind to you ; 
Nor provoke you beyond endurance, 

And cause you dark deeds to do. 

But, oh, when your youthful days are flown, 
And you go into the world your path to try, 

If your heart be not iron 'twill turn to .stone; 
Unless while it's turning so you die. 



134 Z>( >MES TIC A NJ) 

True you asked not for life, dear elf, 

But 'tis given you, and for the gift unasked, 

You must toil and suffer yourself, 

Till you sink into the grave overtasked. 

i»ctober7, 1SS4. 

MY SCRAP-BOOK. 



I have a scrap-book, with pages two hundred and two. 

It's nearly all filled with poetry and pictures, too. 

Red Russian leather is its cover or binding. 

I have no trouble at all in finding 

Any poem I choose to read or learn ; 

Just open the book and instantly to it turn. 

The book's fourteen inches long, and one foot wide 

About four inches thick ; and on the inside 

You'll find selected with considerable care 

Some very nice poems and pictures there. 

If you'll listen now I'll to you explain 

How it differs from others, and what it does contain. 

The first I'll say is, as you'll see at first sight, — 

All through, the poems are on the left side, pictures on the 

Look on right hand side, whatever is there, [right. 

With it the poems on left side in sentiment all compare. 

If you turn to where the picture a soldier should be 

On the left side sentiments of war you'll see; 

And so by this lueans you can easily find 

In a minute any poem to suit your mind. 

For in it there're pictures all kinds, colors and shades — 

Battle scenes and landscapes, men and maids, 

And poems to match ; and drawings with pencnl and pen. 



OTHER POEMS. 1X5 

Some by my lady friends aud some by gentlemen. 
Many pictures of story-heroes and real persons of fame,— 
Famous for talent or great deeds. A few of them I'll name. 
William Wallace, that noble man, and brave Horatius, too; 
Mary Stuart, and James Fitz James and Rodrick Dhu; 
''I.ady MacBeth," with conscience haunted by a sin; 
Cleopatra, Antony, Shakespeare, and Nell Gwyne; 
Lucretia Borgia, Ellen Douglass and Malcolm Graeme ; 
Aud too many others to bother to name. 

Early Rhymes, 1883. 



A LETTER TO MAUD. 

Hefjun Dec. .SI, I8S;{-:it :U)Out 11 nS", n. m. and 
t iiiished Jan. I.st. 1884, at 12: 15 a. in. 

Dear Maud — 

I promised to write to yoii soon ; 
To send you an answer by return mail. 
Expect you are provoked with me. 
But it L'an't be helped— next time I won't fail 
To answer just as soon as I read your letter. 
Am very sorry I neglected the last time to do so. 
But, Maud, you'll forgive me, and answer soon, 
And tell me all the news, because you know 
How dearly I love to hear from you. 
Tell me how you spent the holidays, and whether 
You got many presents, or few, or none; 
And whether it snowed there, and about the weather. 
And whether you watched the old year out or not. 
I wonder what you are doing to-night. 
I am sitting by the centre-table writing this letter. 
It's now not lacking "fifteen of twelve," quite ; 



DOMEtiTlVANl) 

A few iniuutes more and the old year'll be forever gone. 

As I think of it a sad feeling comes over me ; 

It seems hard to part with ajid to watch 

By the invisible death-bed of the old year, '83. 

One year ago 'twas born, — has journeyed on .through 

[light and shade; 
Through spring — summer — autumn — winter. Now its 

[end is nigh. 
So we're up awaiting the birth of the new year, 
And keeping vigil o'er the old, which is about to die. 
Now it lacks only "five of twelve" — '83's nearly dead — 
We must soon bid it forever adieu, 
For so it ever is, — the old must pass on 
To make room for the coming new. 
We weep when parting with the old — 
With a sigh we welcome the new. One minute more 
And then the death of '83, and birth of the new, 
And as yet unknown year, 1884. 
Now I'll draw a line here, for this half 
Of my letter was written in '83. 

Now the whistles are blowing and bells ringing. 

And there's heard the report of many a gun. 

As in honor to the de[)arting year. 

And a welcome to the coming one. 

'Tis exactly the hour of twelve — '83's not quite gone — 

Eighty-four is not quite here. 

'Tis just the moment of the dying and birth 

Of the old and the new year. 

t. *********** 

'Tis over — '83's gone — '84's here. 
Now, Maud, I want you to tell me 
Wheiv vou Mere, and what doino; on this nii^ht ; 




Now the whistles are blowiii;; and bells riiifiing, 
And there's lieaid the report of many a gun,— 
As in lionor to the old departing yea'r, 
And a welcome to the coming one. 
'Tls exactly the hour ol twelve. 

-Page 136. 



1 HER POEMS. 1557 

And answer soon. As it is growing lute, 

I'll draw my letter to a close— mail it to-morrow, 

And patiently for an answer will wait. 

I will close with love to you, 

And hoping these lines will find you well, 

I remain, as ever, your true friend 

A nd old school-mate, Lxjcy Bell. 



^S 



(p 



A DRAMATIC POEM. 

DRAMATIS PERSONS 

Zei.inda, (A flower-j^irl — disojuised governess, Miss 
Howe — and afterwards heiress.) 
Otis Carleton Elma Loreene 

Mr. Lorekne Mrs. Carleton 

Peter Cole Lucille 

Count Perugini Mrs. Loreene 

Anton Clare wood Zelinda's Governess 

The Padre Waiting Maid 

Little Willie The Padre's Wife 

1st Citizen 
2nd " 
Doctor]! 
Little Jake 

Friends, Visitors, Attendants, Minister, Bridesmaids, 
Groomsmen, etc., etc. 

To my Nistrrs, Abhic A. Williams and Carrie B. Oriffenhaf/en, this Dramatic 
Poem is Affectionately Inscribed. 

Dear sisters, this little dramatic poem, 

As you see, is inscribed to you. 
The plot is light, the poem's no gem, 

But if set to good music 'twould do, 
Or pass as an opera. There're many worse 

And many better than Zelinda is. 



With the Bohemian Girl or // Trovatore, of course 

It can't compare. But theu, 'tis 
My first and only dramatic poem, and then 

I worked but one month on it, at most, 
Composing it all once and over again ; 

So 'twasn't much time lost. 
Well, sisters, tell me what you think of it, do, — 
This dramatic poem that I inscribe to you. 

ACT I. 

HcENE 1. — A street. Thunder and lightning, and sound of 
falling rain. Enter, crowd of men citizens with um- 
brellas, etc. 

Cho. How dark and frightful looks the sky. 

The clouds seem angrily wrestling on high. 
A sullen sound of winds — a dismal night. 
And on the streets how dimly burns the light. 
Let's lift our hands and our eyes screen. 
To help to guide us through this gloomy scene. 
1st at. On such a night — I've often heard told — 

Or — well — there comes on the restless wind 

A sad moan, or something o' that kind, 

Perhaps 'tis the sound o' the streams that rise and 

[swell. 
Or a moan of suffering humans, — who can tell ? 
How e'er it be, this wailing sound makes my heart 

[so sad, — 
Though all through life I've had nothing to make 

[me glad. 
Cho. Just so — he who feels that all his happy days are 

[past. 



A stranger — a stranger 'mong strangers cast, 
Whose life's burdened with toil and care ; 
Whose path is laid mid scenes bleak and bare ; 
Whose heart's now in darkness — once with love 

[aglow; 
Whose soul's shadowed by despair and his cour- 

[age laid low. 
This moaning wind certainly doesn't sooth their painj 
It revives old sorrows and he broods o'er them again. 
Oh, such a night! the rain it seems will never cease 

[to pour. 
And who ever heard of su(;h thunder and light- 

[ning before ? 
2)id Clt. Yes, yes, my friends, you're right, you're right, — 

This rain will ruin the merchant's trade to-night. 
But one night wont break them up, so never mind 
How chilly's the rain or how keen the wind. 
Cho. Yes, let's haste to our homes and never mind 
How cold the rain is, or how keen the wind. 
Exeunt Omnes. 

Scene II. — A drawing-room — Loreene's home — Elma and 
Otis. 

Otis. Yes, darling, for the first of April, you're right, 
This is a terrible stormy night ; 
A bad night for the homeless and poor thi« ; 
And how many poor, homeless creatures there is. 
****** 

Well, dearest, I really can no longer remain. 
So I'll bid my loved one good-night once again. 
Elma. 'Tis only eight o'clock, but you're anxious to leave, 

[I notice. 



Oh, stay a little longer; you must not go yet, Otis. 

I shall be so lonesome when you go away, 

And 'tis raining, so you must a little longer stay. 
Otis. Darling, you almost tempt me to remain. 

Yet, I must go, so good-bye once again. 

I promised mother at home I would be. 

Promptly at nine o'clock to tea. 
Elma. I shall finish school in two years and enter society, 

Then, sir, you'll have to beg the privilege of spend- 
[ing an eve with me. 
Otis. Indeed ! In two years I'll be just twenty-two. 

And in two years just eighteen you. 

My mother was married when she was eighteen. 

And a happier couple than pa and ma ne'er were 

[seen. 
Elma. Silence, sir. You must not talk so. 

You're a mere boy, and I 

Enter Mr. and Mrs. L()rep:ne. 

Elma. Oh, papa, urge Otis longer to stay. 

He says in all this rain he's going away. 
Lor. Remain here over night, boy ; don't thiidv of go- 

[ing yet. 

Before you'd get home you'd be thoroughly drench- 

[ing wet. 
Otis. Thank you, Mr Loreene, but I must go. 

Mother's worrying about me, I know. 
Lor. If that's the case I'll not further urge you ; 

But call at my office to-morrow at two. 

[Ensemble.) 

Lor. No, I'll not urge you to remain. 

Lest your mother'd be uneasy about you. 



Jiiit, Otis, whenever you're passing, do stop in, 

For you're always welcome here. 
Otis. [Aside.) So he'll not urge me then again. 

(Aloud.) Yes, mother's waiting for me. Doubt you 

That I'll ever fail when passing, to stop in. 

While this star dwells here? 
Elma. [Aside.) I'll not further urge him, 'twere vain. 

His mother's waiting her tea. Without you — 

No, he'll ne'er fail when passing, to stop in ; 

He knows he's welcome here. 
Ot'is. [Looking at ivatch.) 

Tis after eight — I must go — but see, 

I can get home without getting wet, 

For I brought this oil-cloth coat with me, 

But my overshoes I always forget. 
Lor. But why don't you ride, my boy ? 

I'll order a carriage for you. 
Otis. Thank you, sir, but I prefer to walk, 

As I've an important errand to do. 
Lor. But can't it be put off till to-morrow, i)ray? 

Otis No, not very well, true I — 

Lor. Then if you walk you must take my umbrella, 

My neck-scarf, and, too, my 

Over-shoes, and then you'll not get wet. 

And about calling at my office to-morrow, you won't 

[forget? 
Otis. No sir, I will be there promptly at two. 

(putting on over-shoes, etc.) 
And these shoes, and the umbrella — ha, ha! I'll 

[return that, too. 
Ljor. Ha, ha! I'd forgotten, but umbrellas are, when lent. 

Not often returned to the lender. 



Otis. Yes, when things are lent or when presents are sent, 

The 'HefC one is generally the lender or sender. 

Lor. Ha, ha, ha ! 'tis a great deal that way ; 

But I'll run the risk of losing my umbrella. 

Otis. Ha, ha! well, I must be going. 

Mother I suppose is uneasy about me. 
Or, I should say, lonesome without me. 
So, good-night to you, Mr. Loreene. 
Good-night, Elma, my little queen. 
{Exit, throwing kiss to Elma.) 

Lor. I like young Otis much ; he's an excellent principled 

[boy. 
To see you his wife some day, 'twill be my greatest 

[joy- 

I've set my heart on this match, and you've already 

[won 
The heart — the pure, genuine love of Otis Carleton. 
Ah, yes you have, my pretty, shy, blushing little pet. 
And a better match than you two were ne'er joined 

[by wedlock yet. 
His hair is black, and yours is of the golden hue ; 
His eyes are black and yours are violet blue. 
Look up, darling, just think what a lovely pair 

[you'll make! 
When he asks you, if you refuse him, your father's 
[heart you'll break. 

Exit Mr. and Mrs. Loreene and Elma. 

Scene III. A street. Thunder and lightning, and sound 

of rain. Time, night. Enter Zelinda at a distance, 

poorly clad. Long black hair disheveled — she carries a 

basket of flowers. 



Ziiinda. Oil, how cold ;ui(i tirt'd i am. 
My heart's as heavy as stone ; 
Yet I must wander till I sell these flowers, 
Through this stormy night alone. 
(Shivering.) Boo! how chilly I am! 
Oh, how my poor bones ache! 
But then 1 know that these chilly showers 
Is just what's a going to bring more flowers. 
Lots of dreary showers 'twill take, 
The lovely, sleeping flowers to wake. 
Enter Otis, with umbrella up. 

Zelinda. Please sir, buy one, only one flower. 

I'm so tired and drenched with this chilly show'cr; 

So stormy's the night and so tired am I. 

Oh, please kind sir, just one flower buy. 

I'm sent out in the streets through these showers. 

And don't dare to go home till I sell all my flowers. 

So please, good sir, buy one little flower, 

For I'm so drenched w^ith this chilly shower. 
(Sobbing.) 
Otia. (Aside.) How beautiful! those dark eyes, and those 

[pale features. 

And this is one of the poor homeless creatures ? 

So lovely — so poorly clad. 

(After a pause.) 

Am I dreaming? How my senses whirl ! 

I'll tie this handkerchief about her ears. 

I'll take all your flowers, little girl ; 

So sad little one, dry those tears. 

I'll take the flowers, and you take this gold. 

Hold your hands. ( Cj-ives gold.) Is that right? 



Xovv hurry liome, for 'tis a cold, 
f^ A wild and stormy night. 

He takes flowers. Zelinda exits, greatly astonished; then he 
exits in opposite direction. 

Scene IV. A room in Carleton's home. Mrs. Carletou 
reclinino; on sofa. 

Mrs. C. Raining, still raining ! 

How sombre everything looks. 

I've tried to amuse myself with reading. 

Till I hate the sight of books ; 

And my boy not home ; 

Why, why don't he come? 

(Stamping her foot.) 
Oh, I am so lonesome ; 
What shall I do ! I've read and read — 
Enter, hurriedly, Otis. 

Otis. Well, mother, at last I've come ; 

Expect you've been lonesome, 
Waiting for me these long hours. 
But, really, mother — 
Oh, by the way, here's some lovely flowers. 

Enter Peter Coi.e. 

Peter. Lovely, fresh flowers, well I should judge. 

If you don't give me some I'll owe you a grudge. 
Mrs. C. Thank you, my dear boy, thank you; 

They're lovely. Here're verbenas, pansies and roses, 

[too. 
But you didn't stop in the rain, dear, to get these 

[for me ? 



Otis. I — well, uo, mother — but hav'eyou yet been to tea? 

Mrs C. No, dear, I've been waiting for you. 

Come now, I'm hungry and know you are, too. 
Peter. And I — or — well, I feel 

As though 1 could eat a meal, 

Though I'm not feeling well — very. 

Though I'm not very hungry 

I'll tiike a cup of tea, 

Or glass of lemonade, — sherry. 
Mrs. C. Yes, my cousin Pete, you can always eat ; 

I've never seen the time yet 

That you're not in your chair, ready for your share, 

The moment the table is set. 
Peter. Now, cuz, you're too hard on me. 
Otis. But listen, mother, as I came up the street 

When 'twas raining, whom think you should I meet ? 

A poor wandering child, oh, so wretchedly clad. 

To see those sufferers, it makes my heart so sad ; 

To see her shivering like a leaf, 'twas a pityful sight. 

Poor child, wandering about on this stormy night ! 

I willingly bought all the flowers she had, 

For she looked so distressed and sad. 
3Trs. C. To see those sufferers 'tis sad, but what can we do? 

We can't make the world any better — / nor you. 

So, come, dear, to tea. 

Exit Mrs. Carleton. 

Peter. To make this world better, my will is good. 

But I don't think I can. Should you judge I could? 
Otis. No, no, of course not. 

Peter. Why, no, not a jot. 

Exit Peter. 



/J : I.I Ml A 



Odx. I'sliaw I lioNV foolish 1 am to let a street chikl's lace 

Make siu'li an impression on nie, and take the place 
In my lu-art where Elnia's smiles should he. 
Strange ! where'er 1 look that ta<!e I see. 
When I rose this morning, 1 had no thought 
Of what change foi- me, ere to-morrow, might be 

[wrought. 
[Su/Jiiiuj.) 

Well, well, tlie heart <joes where it yoes; 

We might as well he content. 

If it seeks "forbidden fruit," 'tis useless to oppose. 

Oh, love — love unlL uo where it's sent! 

Exit 

Scene V. A drawing-room. Loreene's home. Three days 
have passed. Elma discovered. 

Elma. Brightly, warmly shines the afternoon sun. 
My studies are all over now but one, — 
That's music. I'll sit down to the piano; 
I'm tired of practicing this old piece through ; 
1 hate it, but I'll practice it because. 
Though I don't like it 1 know mamma does. 

,l.s' .s'Ae «> playing Otis enters and /mts his hands over her eyes. 

Elma. Why papa, you should'nt frighten me so. 

Oh, it's not papa, then it's, Otis I know. 
Otis. ( Takes off hands. ) 

Yes, little Elma, it's only me; 

And oh, I'm lonesome and tired as can be. 

Come, dear, let's sit down together, 

And talk of something, if it's only the weatl 



ler. 



Elma. The weather is fine, 

But 'tis an idea of niiDe, 
That we could find a subject more interesting. 
Otis. Yes, of course we could, 
And 'tis meet we should ; 

Thanks to you, dear, for the thought suggesting. 
Elma. Find a good subject, pray. 
Otiis. Yes, I was going to say, — 

You remember, as we were taking our walk 
Yesterday, (of course you couldn't forget,) 
About that little dark eyed flower girl we met? 
You noticed how lovely she was, black were her 

[eyes 
You remember she came up to me, much to my 

[surprise, 
And what she wanted, you remember I asked her? 
Said she, ''You paid me too much for my flowers, 

[sir." 
And you know how she stood trembling by my side, 
As to put some loose silver into my hand she tried. 
I thought she knew I intended it all for her, to be 

[sure, 
liut I never dreamt of such honor, among a class 

[so poor. 
Then said I, "Keep it all — its yours — that's all 

[right." 
And into her large eyes came a deeply grateful light. 
And I don't know what makes me think of her yet ; 
But there's something about her, I really can't for- 

[get. 
Elma. Poor liltle girl ! I remember her well, 

I often see her on the street, with flowers to sell. 
Many times I've opened my purse of silver and pearl , 
And given change to that same flower girl. 



Otis. You make every one love you, indeed you do. 

Elma. And I lost my purse yesterday ; it's easy to buy a 

[new, 
But mamma bought this in Paris for me, 
And 'twas just as lovely as lovely can be. 
Otis. I'll go and advertise for it, for you ; 

'Twill be the best thing we can do, 
I'll return in less than an hour. 

Exit Otis. 
Enter a Servant 
Serv. Some one wishes to see you below — a little girl. 
Elma. Perhaps she's found my purse of silver and pearl. 

Admit her. 
Serv. But she don't want to come in here. 

Says she wants you to come out there. 
Elma. Nonsense ! Admit her. 

Exit Servant. A pause, then re-enter, showing in Zelin- 
DA, holding the purse. Then exit Servant. 

Elma. Oh, there it is, my purse of silver and pearl. 

I'm so glad. Did you find it, little girl? 

Sit down and tell me all about it, do. 

I'm so glad, I don't know how to reward you. 
Zelinda There're three of us live with the padre — 

Ugly Jake, little Willie and me. 

Willie is good, he's not so old as I. 

But I hate Jake, he hurts Willie and makes him cry. 

Me and Willie this morning the pocket-book found, 

But hateful Jake was watching around, 

And took it from us, but we got it again ; 

But what a time we had, — 1 can't explain. 

"And now let's break it open," Willie said. 

We opened it, and in it your name J read. 



(Proudly.) 'Cause I can read a little. 
And though we found it, you prized it 1 knew; 
So I resolved to bring it back to you. 
(Elma lings bell on table. Enter Servant.) 
Elma. Fill for this little girl a basket of bread and meat. 

Exit Servant. 
Zelinda. No, uo, lady, I don't want anything to eat. 
Elma. But you must have it. 

I won't give you any money to-day, ' 

For ugly Jak(! might take it away ; 
But come to-morrow, and bring Willie too, 
And I'm sure pa and ma'll do something for you. 
Enter Servant ivith basket, sets it down and exits. 
Elma. This basket of eatables you must take, 

For your pa, ma, Willie, yourself and Jake. 
Zelinda. I hardly like to take it; still. 

As it's something for 'em all, I will. 

( Takes up basket.) 
I'll come then, to-morrow at about three. 
And bring little Willie along with me. 

Exit with basket. 

Scene VI. A street with front of Loreene's house. A flight 

of stairs leading to door. Time, evening. Enter Oris. 

As entering the house he hears a cry, and sees form 

crouched by stairway, 

Otis. What are you crying for, boy, say? 

Why don't you go home, — have you lost your way? 
Willie. Your're the same man what give Zcl so 
Much money one night. 

Oh, sir, save her ! Down home they're having a fight. 
You see the lady what lives here lost her pocket- 

[book ; 



ZE LINDA. 



We found it, made it open, and in it did look, 

And Zel, to-day, bringed it back to her. 

And papa says he's going to kill her. 

As to keep the money, we never thinked of such. 

If you save her — she's good — she'll thank you, oh, 

[so much. 
{Onjiny.) 
Otis. (Aside.) In my heart there comes a desire, wild. 

To save this lovely, helpless child. 

That face ! that face where' re I look I see. 

Come boy, to your sister's home show me. 

Exit both. 
Scene VII. A shabby room. Rough chairs and table, etc. 
Zelinda screaming, Jake holding her, the padre beating 
her. His wife kneeling. Otis rushes in. 
Padre. Well, what do you want and who are you ? 

To git out o' here quick's, the best thing you can do. 
Otis. I want that child — strike her again if you dare. 

And into inch pieces I'll your body tear. 
Padre. You will, eh? I'll beat her to death if I want to, 

And you'd better mind or I'll whack you, too. 

Get out, you cussed, impudent dog. 

Or I'll kill you as I would a hog. 
Otis. Go on with your threats ; I fear you not. 

I don't believe she^s your child at all. 

And if she is, why, still 

You shall not abuse her, strike her again, 

And I'll take her from you, say what you will. 

I'll free her from your cruel treatment, and what I 

[say I mean. 
Padre. (Aside.) He'll free her from my cruel treatment. 

And what he says believe? 



ZELINDA. 



Otis. Yes. Strike that child again, and I'll take her, 

Ne'er again to be abused by you ; 

Take her from you, though you call me a thief; 

And though God calls me so, too. 
{Ensemble.) 
Otis. I can't see the weak abused and will not. 

Pay heed to what I say. 

I'll take this child from your brutal treatment, 

Though God should say, "liCt her stay." 
Padre. {Aside.) He can't see the weak abused and will not. 

I heed what that man says? 

He'll take her from me, eh, will he though ? 

He's warm for these cool days. 
ZeUnda. {Aside.) Oh, thanks to God, there's one to protect 

He'll take me from this place. [me. 

No, no, I — I couldn't leave little Willie; 

None could fill sweet Willie's place. 
{Laying hand on heart.) 
Padre's \ {Aside.) I hope he'll not see the child abused, and 
Wife, j Take her from this place away. 

She's too frail a creature to endure his treatment; 

That he will take her I pray. 
Otis. One time, when I was twelve years of age. 

Running the streets, up and down ; 

What I hadn't seen I was bound to see. 

So over I went to String-town. 

There I saw a mother cruelly torturing her child. 

It'd done something that didn't suit. 

In the heat of rage I flew at her 

And rescued it from the female brute. 

They who will take advantage and abuse the weak 

Are merely brutes in human form. 



lol /,KIANI)A. 

80 at twelm 1 dared to rush in there 
To shield the helpless from harm. 
{Ensemble?) 
Otis. 1 grasped that mother's wrists with such a grip 

That they were black and blue ; 
Called in the police, turned her over to them, 
And that's how I'll serve you. 
Padre. (Aside.) So he grasped that mother's wrists and 
He'd like to hold mine too ! [held 'em. 

But no cop gits me; so I'll fix him, 
While he's blowing what he'll do. 
He goes to table, gets large knife and rushes at Otis. They 
grapple. Otis gets knife away and the Padre stands 
amazed lohile Otis exits with Zelinda. 

ACT II. 

Scene I. A room. Carleton's home. Night. Mr. and 
Mrs. and Elma Loreene, Mrs. Carletou, Peter Cole, 
friends, etc. 

Mrs. C. You'll all be here next Thursday eve 

To the church sociable ? 
Cho. Yes, we'll all assemble here 

Next Thursday eve. 
Lor. [Aside.) What good these sociables are, 

I can't conceive. 
Mrs. C. Yes, if the weather is clear, 

I'm sure you'll be here. 

I hope 'twon't storm ; but if it does, 

I'll be sure of one, [looking at Peter) won't I, coz? 
Peter. Yes, I'm always on hand, whether I'm wanted or 
Cho. Ha, ha, ha ! [not. 



Lor. P(!ter, a ooniioal genius are you. 

Peter. Every word I've said is true. 
Cho. Ha, ha, ha ! 

Mrs.Lor. ( To Mr. Loreene.) 

Won't you go to cliuroh with me next Sabbath? 

It seems you never will go with me there. 

You should join our ehureli — become a member. 

'Tis grand, Herbert, grand almost beyond compare. 
Lor. Xo church for me. I'm a true man, Lulu, 

Nor will I flinch when God reads my soul. 

I have never wronged any one yet, Lulu. 

It has e'er been my motto, to let conscience control. 

Every man has his natural faults, true ; 

But then when we do the best we can. 

That's all Heaven requires us to do. 

To win God's love and the respect of man. 

Suppose I were condemned, sent to imprisonment, 

Called a guilty wretch, with heart cruel and hard. 

God, if my heart's of the crime innocent. 

Will give to me when "schools out,^' "a blue card." 

There are many deep ruts in life's path. 

We're weak ; what if we misstep and fall, 

Should God pour upon us his wrath? 

He made the "rough path" — weak men and all. 
Enter, hurriedly, Waiting Maid. 
Maid. Mrs. Carleton, here comes your son 

With a bundle, — oh, a great big one. 
('ho. With a bundle? You must be mistaken, 

For what would he have in it? 
Maid. Yes, with a bundle ; I'm not mistaken. 

He'll be here in a minute. 



Enter Otis with Zelinda ivraqyped up. Lays her on sofa. 

Mrs. C. Well, well, my boy, my sou. 
What have you done ? 

Otis. Nothing that I'm ashamed of. Only what is right. 

'Tis the child I bought the flowers of that night. 
I met a little boy as I was coming home. 
Says he, "Come save Zel, sir, please come." 
So I followed the boy, through alleys dark with 

[gloom, 
Till we came to a shanty, and in a shabby room, 
There a beastly man, without a redeemal)le feature, 
Stood thrashing this poor little helpless creature. 
Not minding were he at my intrusion displeased, 
I dashed him aside, and the helpless one seized. 
And mother, let come in the future what may come, 
But let's keep this child to share our home. 

Elma. Yes, do, she's good and honest as can be. 

'Tis the same girl who returned my purse to me. 

Lor. Indeed, is't that honest one that lies there? 

'Twas an honest act — indeed, most rare. 

Peter. Yes, to bring it back and all the money, too. 
I tell you it's more'n most finders would do. • 

Mrs. C. You've brought her here for me to keep, but I will 

[not, — no, no. 
I can't see why you want to impose upon yonr 

[mother so. 
In childhood, Otis, you know you always were 
Bringing to me stray dogs and cats ; now you've 

[brought her. 
I'm sure, my son, I don't want to be too severe, 
But I say emphatically, I will not have her here. 



Otis. Then 1 alone will care for the poor, helpless creature. 

I'll i)ay her way to school and leave her in care of 

[her teacher. 
Mrs. C. Otis, if you do so, you'll play the part of a fool. 

That creatureMl never thank you for sendino- her to 
Otis. Well then, be it so; [schcu.l. 

Hut to school she shall jio. 
Mrs. C. Send her there then, if you must; 

You'll learn to be wiser in the future, I trust. 
Cho. Mrs. Carleton, Otis is a noble youth. 

Lor. Aye, a very noble boy in truth. 

Cho. You should encourage his manly actions, instead 

( )f saying against them what you've said. 
Mrs. C. Oh, of course I know I should. 

And do encourage him to do good. 

But I can't have her here. It does seem 

As though he's carrying goodness to the extreme. 
Cho. Oh, don't turn the friendless child away; 

Since Otis has brought her let her stay. 
Mrs. C. No, no, no ! She can't stay here ; 

1 will not have it so. 
0;7.s'. 1 told you once, — didn't von liear? — 

That to s(;h(>ol she shall go. 
Mrs. C. Very well then, very well. 

But Otis, have you forgotten that you are to sail 

For London to-morrow, you and Mr Aimandale? 
Otis. 1 have not. I will remain three years, and when — 

Lor. You return, Elma shall be your wife, then? 

Otis. Yes. I'll place this girl in care and keeping 

Of a good teacher. Poor child ! Still sleeping. 

She was beaten so severely she fainted away, 
Cho. You must send for a doctor, no longer delay. 



That she was beaten severely, 'tis clear. 
She must no longer, uncared for, lie here ; 
You must put her to bed — she's fainted away. 
Oh, send for a docLor, no longer delay. 
Peter. Yes, some one for the doctor trudge ; 

It's the right thing to do, I should judge. 

Scene II. Another room. Carleton'shoine. Night. The 
room is dark. Enter Mrs. Carleton, in night-gown, 
meditatingly. 

Mrs. C. I — well — perhaps I didn't do right. 
I might have let Otis have his way. 
My conscience says to me to-night — 
You might have let the poor girl stay. 
How conscience stares us in the face 
At midnight, with her stern accusing stare. 
We try to sleep, but she apace, 
Flies to our steeled hearts and rappeth there. 
We're loth to own that she is just ; 
That she slumbers only when we do wrong. 
She then awakes ; obey her we must. 
Else she'll trouble us our whole life long. 
Through the bustle of the day do we 
Often do something that isn't right ; 
And so conscience doth say to me ; 
And makes me walk about this night. 
Conscience tells us when we wrongly do; 
Pleads our case and shows us the right. 
'Twill ne'er deceive us; 'tis true. 
Heed it not, and the heart 'twill bite. 



Since Otis went awa}' I haven't had one i!;ood 

[night's sleep. 
My l)oy! I pray for his safety, while sailing o'er 

[the deep. 
I hope he'll return in three years, as agreed. 
He sent that girl to school — 'twas a kindly deed. 
But then I wish he hadn't done so. 
Will she ever thank him for it? No. 
When he returns I'll hurry his marriage withElma, 
Lest he might turn from her to Zeliuda. 
Three years — how long to wait. 
Exit slowly. 

Scene III. A small study room. Zelinda holding a pic- 
ture. Three years have passed. 

Zelinda. I call to my mind, through these lonely hours, 
The days when I was a poor girl, selling flowers. 
How I was compelled through the streets to go, 
Poorly clad, selling flowers — only three years ago. 
Oh, Otis! Kind Otis! I sincerely love you. 

{Kissing picture.) 
Was ever a love more sincere and true ? 
And Heaven ! He's to be married to Ell ma to- 

[morrow. 
Well, Elma, I won't stand in the way to cause you 
No, I had rather live in sorrow [any tears. 

Through all the coming years. 
No, no, I'll never cause her any pain ; 
Her heart that has ne'er yet known any. 
'Twere best I should bear the sorrows alone, 
For my heart has known so many. 
Unfer hei- Governess. 



ItKi /.ELIM)A 

Gov. Zelinda, how's this? — of late 1 notice 

You're always looking at this picture, or talking of 

[Otis. 
That I love you as my own Zelinda, 'tis true. 
God knows I hope the future holds no clouds for you. 
Zelinda, my dear child, the truth to me impart; 
Tell me, oh, tell me, the secrets of your heart. 
Zelinda. Do 1 love him ? Yes. Did he not me from a hor- 

[rible life save ? 
I love, worship him — would be content to be his 

[slave. 
(jrov. I rn sorry that you young Otis Carletou love, 

Because for you 'twill a great sorrow prove. 
Think how dreadful you'll feel to see him with a 

[wife. 
You must eease to love him or you'll be unhappy 

[all your life. 
Don't let this sorrow grow in your heart, 
But furnish the wings now for it to depart. 
I f you're light hearted you're blesst, whether wealthy 

[or poor ; 
And it's \\\v. only way these terrible heart-aches to 

[cure. 
Xediida. Your advice is excellent, but 1 cannot take it. 

To-morrow I'm going to leave this place forever ; 
I can't remain here any longer. 
I feel, oh, I can't tell how [ feel ; 
But if you have loved, you know. 
Gov. No, child, you shall not leave me. 

Zelinda. I wouldn't leave you — I love you, but I can't stay 

[here. 



Scene i\ . Interior of a church, lighted, etc. Otis and 
El ma in bridal costume. Mr, and Mrs. Loreene, Mrs. 



Carleton, Petor Cole, friends, inlnister, coutrregatlon, 
bridesmaids, groonisnieu, etc., etc. 

{Congratulation.) 
Cho. Hall to the bridegroom! 

Mr. Carletou, you we congratulate. 

To win so fair a bloom. 

You are very fortunate. 

Hail to the bridegroom ! Hall we — 

Hail to the bridegroom and bride ! 

May they content and happy be, 

Those by holy matrimony tied. 

They're one, though sejjarately they stand ; 

And nought but death shall part; 

Not only tied with matrimony's band, 

But they're joined heart to heart. 
Wheii all Is joyous Ehu a faints and the bridal wreath falls to 

the floor. 
Cho. She has fainted ! A doctor — water — (•am])h(>r — or 

[something! 
itfr^.Lyr. Go, go, get a doctor! My daughter! — 
All. Some cam])hor bring! 

Cho. The bridal wreath of jasmines, white. 

Has fallen from her brow; 

Beaming a moment ago with Joyous light, 

Were the eyes that' re sightless now. 
Lor. Perhaps her heart was so full of bliss ; 

Too happy for a moment's space. 

Oft have I heard of such as this. 

White as her costume is her face. 
Cho. Sweet bride ! Upon her marriage night. 

When all was joyous and gay, 

From her eyes fled the glowing light ; 



/iELlNDA. 



From lier cheeks faded the tiut away. 
(Elm A recovers.) 
Cho. Why did you faint; what caused it pray? 

Why should the rose tint leave your cheeks ? 

Why should the light your eyes forsake — 

What caused it ? Pray tell us, — speak. 

Did your heart of too much bliss partake? 

Was this fainting but the excess 

Of the moment's happiness, 

Or was it woe that caused it, say ? 
Elma. I cannot tell you what it was. 

A thousand hundred thoughts 

Like shadows o'er me swept ; 

Then a dark and dismal cloud 

O'er ray eyesight crept ; 

My bridal dress became my shroud, 
Cho. Horrors ! Horrors ! 

But 'tis only natural that one should weep, 

When from father and mother they part ; 

From those whose tones of love so deep, 

Have gladdened their youthful heart. 

'Tis no more than natural to yield to fears, 

When the hand's given to a new guide. 

Will he prove true through the coming years? 

His love is really as yet untried. 

Oh, therefore let her weep. 

ACT HI. 

Scene I. Lucille's home. A beautiful garden, Lucille and 
Zeliuda (as Miss Howe,) 

Lucille. You've been uiy govei'ness for six years, Miss Howe, 



Aiicl I'm eii^hteen, and ready to enter society now. 
Zelinda. I expect your heart with joy is running o'er, ([uite, 

For to-jnorrow eve is your reception night. 
Lucille. Oh, yes, just think, — why, I'm perfectly delighted. 

Let me see, I've forgotten now,just who are invited. 

I've really forgotten hctw many there will be ; 

I'll run in, look at the list and sec. 

Exit into house. 
Zelinda. Otis Carleton and wife will be here to-morrow eve. 

Enter Anton Ci.arewood — kneels before Zelinda. 
Anton. My lady, do not frightened be. 

'Tis Anton Clarewood, — only me. 

Is your answer ready, — have you thought of it well ? 

'Tis "720." You havn't said it, but your eyes foretell. 

When I say that I love you, 'tis heavenly true. 

And it seems they are few who love as I do ; 

None will love you more truly than I — no, never. 

Oh, give me your hand, and be mine forever. 

Miss Zelinda, 'tis you that I come here to see, 

But Miss Lucille fully imagines 'tis she, 

Because she's an heiress she imagines so ; 

And you are her governess you know ; 

And because I'm a millionaire, too. 

She naturally thinks it's her, not you. 

That so wealthy a man would come to see. 

I think Lucille is setting her cap for me. 

But I swear, by the heavens above, 

That you are the only one I love. 
Zel. I am very sorry that you love me, sir. 

For I cannot accept your hand ; 

I wish you would cease to love me, for 

The love you lavish upon me, sir, 



ZKLI.\DA. 



Anton. 



Anton. 
Lucille. 
Anton. 

Lucille. 
Anton. 
Lucille. 



Zel. 
Lucille. 

Zel. 

Lucille. 

Zd. 

Lucille. 



Zel. 
Lucille. 



Is like sowing seed on sand. 
Oil, oh! Of all, this is worst. 
Whv should I thus be cursed? 



(He rises.) 



Re-enter Lucille. 
(lood afternoon, Miss Lucille. 
{Shyly.) I — I didn't know you were here, sir. 
I know, — I came to see your father. 
Is he at home, do you know? 
I think he is, sir. 
I will go in. (Exit into house.) 
Mine will be the grandest reception you 
Ever heard of in your life. 
The Samsons, La Tours, Vokes, Epps, 
Mr. Carleton and wife, 

And many others will be here; they're all invited. 
And with such an assemblage, you'll be delighted. 
I think I shall be, oh, yes. 
And you're to be one of us, dear governess. 
I, Lucille? No, child, no. 
I really do not wish it so. 
Yes, Miss Howe, mamma says you must. 
And you'll not refuse her, I trust? 
I must, — then be it so. 

But you can't imagine how awkward I'll feel 
Among so many strangers, Lucille. 
Oh, never mind that, dear Miss Howe. 
But I'm going to change the subject now. 
Did you ever love? Now answer true, 
'Cause I trust all my secrets with you. 
Well, Lucille, I have loved, — ^yes. 
I thought you had, dear governess. 



ZELiyDA. 



I dare not tell inainnia what 1 feel ; 
She'd I'rown and say, ''You're too young, Lucille." 
] love a man who is ricli, haudsonu; and good. 
I love even his name — Anton Clarewood. 
Zd. (Aside.) She does, then, love him. 

Poor dear, her heart will be filled with sorrow. 
I see the clouds that hover o'er her to-morrow. 
Lucille. I think he's very lovable, don't you — 

This young millionaire? 
Zel. Yes, he's a fine looking man, true; 

But, Lucille, beware ! 
For he loves not you. 
Lucille. Oh, tell me, tell me what 

INIakes you think he loves me not? 
Zel. I know, Lucille, I know full well ; 

But the whys and wherefores I cannot tell. 

lie loves a woman, unhappy, uu blest, 

Lucille. Enough! You needn't unbosom the rest ; 

I understand and 'tis not incredible. 
Zel. You're young, perhaps your love is vincible. 

Ljucille. Oh, it may be, it may be, Miss Howe ; 
Though it seems, it seems to me now 
That my love for him is increscent. 
But if he loves me not, that is sufficient ; 
I'll try to forget him, Oh, Oh!— 
Zrl. I understand, poor child, — I know. 

{Aside.) So young, yet sorrow for her is inchoate. 
Why must it be, oh, wretched fate ? 
Jjucille. Miss Howe. I love you more and more. 
I love you more to-day than ever before. 
LnjHirt to me the secrets of your breast ; 
Tell me whv vou call vourself unblest. 



Was it disappointed love? Tell nu; true. 
Did you love a man that loved not you ? 
Zel. I did, oh God ! 'Tis destiny— 'tis fate. 

Ever since I was born I've been cursed. 
Sorrows press like a mountain's crushing weight 
On my heart, till it seems 'twill burst. 
Before I was born I must have been wicked, 
For I'm sure I haven't been since — 
They say God is good — then why, instead 
Of punishing the good, doesn't he convince 
Us of his goodness by punishing the bad. 
And to the good give joy — success? 
He sends misfortune to make the good sad. 
And fill the heart with dire distress. 
People say we'll get our rewards "up there," 
If we're good unto the end. 
Yet why he does send Satan to ensnare 
The good ones, I can't comprehend 
I — my heart ! Oh, Oh ! I suffocate ! 
[She faints.) 

ACT IV. 

Scene I. Lucille's home. A reception. An assemblage ot 
ladies and gentlemen. Among them — Anton Clarewood, 
Lucille, Otis, and Elma and Zelinda. Otis recognizes 
her but doesn't speak. 
Cho. Yes, this is fair Lucille's birthday ; 

She's just eighteen. 
Let's pass the night with mirth away. 
Lucille's the queen 

Of the assemblage that have assembled here ; 



Tliis nii^ht she makes her debut 
luto society. Give for Lucille a cheer. 
Lucille, with joy we welcome you ! 
( They salute her, etc.) 
Otis. {Aside.) 

I can't help where my heart goes to, 

For love goes where it's sent. 
'Tis strange indeed, how the heart does do. 
Why with Elma am I not content? 

Oh, the human heart is a changeful thing. 

We think we love one to-day; 
Perhaps to-morrow, like a bird on the wing, 

That love may have passed away. 

I despise this falling in love at first sight; 

I don't believe in it, still, 
My heart it went out to her that night, 

Though 'twas against my will. 

We can't help whc-re the heart may rove to, 
For oxxY feelings are beyond our control ; 

We can help our actions, whether they prove true, 
And actions save or destroy the soul. 

So, though 1 love Zelinda, I will not blight 
Fair El ma's heart, so fond and true. 

Of my love to Zelinda, I've ne'er given a plight; 
But, Elma, oft I've pledged it to you. 

Too, Elma loves me and Zelinda loves me not ; 

So I, I bear the pain alone. 
To leave Elma for Zelinda would prove me what? 

A villian with a heart of stone! 

(Anton, Lucille and Zelinda walk to a secluded portion 



ZEI.I.MjA. 



of the room.) 
Anton. Miss Lucille, are you enjoyin*^ yourself? 
Lucille. 1? Why I'm perfectly delisrhted ; 

More than hapi)y am 1. 
Anton. Miss Howe looks as if her last hi)j)e were blij^hted, 

But I cau't see why. 
Zcl. I am well pleased with the entertainment. 

{Aside and looking after Otis.) 

My lieart seems breaking, yet I must patient smiles 

The love I bear him I must keep [wear. 

Ever buried in affection's deep. 

Were I now living with the padre, 

I would really happier be; 

Though woeful was that life, 'twas bliss, 

I trow, when compared with this. 

Then I felt not the pang of love ; 

Could picture happiness in the world above ; 

But now no joy can 1 imagine there. 

Without him there's no happiness anywhere. 

Could I be happy in the world above, 

Seeing the only one I love, — 

He who is dearer to me than life — 

Ever there with his wife ? 

{A pau.'ie. She foil oivs Otis with the eye.) 

'Tis well he doesn't recognize me ; 

I've changed so much since he saw me last. 

Since then about nine years have passed. 

{She falls fainting into large chair, unnoticed by any save An- 
ton and Lucille, and soon recovers.) 
iMcille. My dear governess, wliat caused this fainting? 

I fear you are not well. 
Anton. Miss Howe, pray what caused this fainting? 



1 fear yoii 'ii't-' "t>t well. 
You are not feeling well t()-ni*;^lit, 
Or something's gone wrong. 
Zel. Oh, yes, I'm feeling well, quite. 

Nor jiothing's gone wrong. 

{They mingle among the assemblage again.) 

Enter Mrs. Carleton, Mr. and Mrs. Loreexe, Lucille's 

Mother and Peter Coee. 

Lo)\ We old folks have come to see 

The young ones enjoy themselves. 
'Tis pleasure to the others as to me, 
l^\)r we were young ourselves. 

Cho. And right welcome are you; 

Weiconu! our joy to share ; 
The old folks tried and true. 
Who've watched with parental care 
O'er us through our childhood days, 
And who pray for us to-day. 
They're welcome where we are always; 
More than welcome are they. 

Lor. We knew we'd be welcomed by our children dear. 

Cho. You are more than welcomed by your childreu here. 

Peter. But me, where do I come in at, pray? 

Don't try to send me home in that way. 

Though I am the old folks among, 

I am neither very old nor young. 

The old and young, I rank just between ; 

So I'm left in the "cold" I ween. 
Cho. Ha, ha, ha ! 

Peter. But I'm not going to leave you ; 



ZELINDA. 



I'm going to stay. 
I'll tell you, and you'll believe, too, 
Every word I say. 

(%o. Tell us. What is it? 

Peter. ( Walks to centre.) 

Here in the centre I stand, — now look at me — 

Here, surrounded by you all. 
None other like me — so I'm like, don't you see, 

The May-pole, at a ball? 

Just as tiie young, with festive glee and joy, dance 

Around the May-pole; 
So the young to-night, don't you see, with coy glance. 

Circle round Peter Cole? 

There's several genuine old and many young; but see, 

I'm here entirely alone. 
So, that I'm like the May-pole and it's like me. 

You certainly will own. 

Cho. Ha, ha, ha ! 

Yes, we see you're not young, nor yet old, by far. 

Mr. Cole you make believe you're more alone than 
Peter. I — no, I do not. [you are. 

Fy! No, not a jot. 
Cho. Well, then, Mr. Cole, 

If you're a May-pole, 

We'd ought to dance around you. 
Peter. Indeed, that's what you should do. 

And I wish you would. 
Cho. Ha, ha ! Oh, the night is passing pleasantly; 

Evervthino; seems in harmonv. 



We'll be happy while we cau, for, alas! 
Too soon — too soon, may dull care trespass. 

( At end of Chorus, tvhen all is at the highest pitch of merriment, 
^L.UA falls. A great excitement. After a pause she recovas.) 

Cho. Oh, tell us, tell us what you saw. 

What — what has terrified you so ? 

Elma. I — I — stand back, — I suffocate ! 

Everything turned black before me; 
A white cloud gathered o'er me; 
Then came "Death"— said I, "Wait !" 

But the grave opened — into it I fell. 
They began filling in the dirt ; I said, "Stop !" 
They filled till they made a mound on top. 
But still I could see just as well. 

And after Otis had wet with tears, my grave, 
He left me, oh, left me to lie alone there. 
And though I couldn't move I could see everywhere. 
Ere I died, his heart to another he gave. 

Then I called to him and tried to rise. 
But the dirt it pushed me back. 
And then a lady, with hair velvet black, 
Gazed on me with her sweet black eyes. 

She was almost as sweet as an angel. 
Said she, as tears streamed down her pale face, 
"1 will not fill in Otis' heart your place." 
Now what did this mean — who can tell ? 

[A pause. Otis shivers. Zelinda looks on vacancy. The others 
look terrified.) 



ZKLISDA. 



I was so loucly, so for Birdie I cried. 
Said 1, "Birdie, my sweet child, come; 
1 ain so louely and can't come home." 
And she came, and was laid by my side. 

Emeiiible. 

Otm. 'Twas only a passing vision or dream, 

Caused by a rush of blood to the head. 
It signifies nothing — oh, do you deem, 
That I, if bereft of you, would another wed? 

Elma. Yes, I know 'twas only a dream, 

Caused by a rush of blood to my head. 

It signifies nothing. I do not deem 

That you, if bereft of me, would another wed. 

Lor. Yes, only a passing vision or dream. 

Caused by a rush of blood, as he says. 
He worships you — oh, do not deem 
Him false, for he'll be true to you always. 

Anton. (Aside.) Of course 'twas a vision or dream; 
But then I think there's some reality in it ; 
It signifies something, and I do deem 
That he's longing to marry another this minute. 

Peter. {Aside.) It was only an empty passing dream ; 
I know it was, for Otis is always right. 
If Elma'd die, I do not deem 
That he'd ever marry another, though lu; might. 

Mrs. C. [Aside.) I hope 'twas only a passing dream ; 

Yes, I hope 'twas merely an empty passing vision. 
Though he'd wrongly do, I couldn't deem 
Hijn wicked nor look upon him with derision. 



Zel. [Aside.) Her iiniul's been waiulerinjr through a 

[dream. 
If she'd die I don't think he'd marry again, 
Nor ever love another, for I deem 
Otis Carleton is one of the noblest of men. 

Lucille. (Aside.) Her mind's wandered throngii a terrible 

[dream.] 
Poor Elma, it has made her heart so sad! 
I don't know, but then I deem 
That the most of these men are awful bad. 

Scene ii. A room. Carleton's home. Enter Mr8. Carle- 
ton and Otis. 
Mrs. C. Otis, you act very strange; 

You havn't acted right since the reception eve. 

Why 'tis you act so I can't conceive. 

Can it be — 
Otis. Can what be, mother ? 

Mrs. C. That you do not love Elma. 
Oti^. You provoke me, mother. Are you insane ? 

Have I ever given cause that you 

Or she should of such things complain ? 
Mrs. C. Yes, my boy, you have, and great cause, too. 

Else I wouldn't have brought it up to you. 
Oti^. Mother, you wrong me, — 

Indeed, you wrong your son. 

What makes you think 1 love her not ? 

Tell me what I've done. 
Mrs. C. Listen ! All trembling, this morn, Elma came to me 

And asked if I thought such a thing could be. 

That you, my son, loved her not. 

Then she began to tell me what 

She had heard that led her to think so. 



Slie said you talked in your sleep a night or so ago. 

Your arms about her you lovingly threw ; 

Then said, " Zelinda, Zeliuda, I love you." 

Now what does all this mean? 
Otis. That I said I loved Zelinda? No— 

It really couldn't have been so. 

(Aside.) Pshaw! Could I have mentioned her name 

[in sleep? 
3frs. C. Those words have wounded her faithful heart. 

Sweet Elraa, like a flower drooping to decay — 

Like a tender flower in the noonday heat 

She's drooping and fading away. 

1 think ere many days are passed, 

My son, you'll be bereft of her. 

Yes, ere six months more are gone 

I think you'll be a widower. 

And then, perhaps, you'll marry another. 
Otis. Oh, what makes you talk so, mother. 

Mrs. C. Because she you talked of in your dream 

Does make it really that way seem. 

Scene III. Another room. A bed whereon Elma lies. 
Otis, Mrs. Carleton, Mr. and Mrs. Loreene, Peter Cole, 
waiting maid, doctor and friends around the bed. 

Mrs. C. {Aside to Otis.) You remember, I told you a few 

[weeks ago. 

That I thought you'd be bereft of her soon. 

Now that time has come, I think, — I know 

She will not live to see to-morrow's sun. 
Oti^. Oh, mother! 
Elma. {Her mind wandering.) 

Catch me, catch me, — I'll fall, I'll fall ! 



ZKLINUA. 



Tell me, did you hear that strange voice call ? 

Oh say, did you hear that death bell chime? 

Loved ones, I'm goiug — It has come — my time. 

Oh, catch me, I say, or I'll— I'll lall ! 
Otvi. Poor dear! she is dreaming, — that's all. 
Doctor. {Feels pulse, etc., then draws Otis aside.) 

I might as well tell you the solemn truth ; 

'Tis right that I should, as she's your wife. 

If you've aught to say to her, say it now, 

For a few more hours will end her life. 
Otis Doctor! I—Oh! 

Elma. Farewell, Otis, — lam dying; 

Death is settling o'er me fast. 
I heard a strange voice call me 

As a breeze came sweeping j)ast. 
Take me to your breast, dear Otis ; 

Weep no more, dry those tears, 
And for my sake, be kind to Birdie, 

Through all the coming years. 

Otis dear, you won't forget me. 

When I'm sleeping in death so still, — 
You will often, often think of me. 

Dearest, yes, I know you will. 
Bring in darling little Birdie, 

Ere my life fades quite away ; 
Let me see her, my darling child, 

Let her on my bosom lay. 

Otis. Precious wife, darling Elma! 

Though we now part, we'll meet again; 
Meet in the great hereafter. 

Free will be our hearts from pain ; 



ZKIA.XDA. 



I'll take good care of little Birdie, 

Tell her of you every day, 
And how you loved your little daughter, 

And how at last yon passed away. 

Elma. Otis, will you ever another love, — 
Will you wed another ever, 
Or will you a faithful husband prove 
When death us two doth sever? 
Otis. Doubt not, I'll ever faithful prove, 

And will never another love, [shivering.) 
Though death us two doth sever. 
Love cannot die — 'twill live forever. 

\_Efnhracing her.^ 
Enter — Maid with Birdie. 

Elma. Birdie dear, I'm going to leave you. 
There, sweet Birdie, do not cry ; 
You will some day come to meet me — 

Kiss me loved one, ere I die. 
Oh, no more with you and papa 

Will my heart with pleasure swell. 
God ! — my breath is leaving me ! 
Otis — Birdie — all — farewell. 

{Dies.) 
[A pause.) 
Mr. and 3Irs. Loreene — 

Our child has left us now ; 

Death's paleness rests upon her brow. 

Elma, most dearly we've loved you. 

Must we bid you now forever adieu? 

Farewell, then — forever, farewell. 

Though we love you more than tongue can tell. 



And though bereft of your presence are we, 

You will never forgotten be. 

No more will be our lionie as it has been in the past. 

A shadow from this time on o'er home will be oast. 
3Irs. C. Oh, Elma, I've loved you as my own. 

Now a shadow will be thrown 

O'er our home ; you are gone. 

How we'll miss you, gentle one; 

H(jw dark will be my Otis' life; 

How he'll miss his loving wife. 
Chorus. We see the pallid hue of death 

Stamped on her lifeless brow. 

And sorrow is in our hearts. 

Dark shadows hover o'or us now. 

How serene she looks and fair ; 

Death wears no stern aspect there. 

Oh, death is the common lot for all ; 

Sooner or later we all must fall 

In the arms of death to sleep. 

Then why should we so sadly weep 

For those who die before us? 

Death is ever hovering o'er us. 

Weep not for her — she is free from sorrow. 

We who now mourn may be called to-morrow ; 

Yes, to-morrow, we may hear death's call ; 

For Death, Master Death, takes all. 
Otis. To die, to part, to be forgot. 

For all 'tis the common lot. 

Yet in life how we dread 

To think of being numbered with the dead; 

To lie in earth's damp bed ah^ne. 

But why .shniiJd we so .<iadhi moan — 



ZKIAXDA. 



Since all in death must full — 
For one Oblivion waits for all? 
We live to-day in realities deep ; 
To-morrow we're called to eternal sleep. 
Elma seems too fair to rest, 
To moulder away in earth's breast, 
And yet, when our mind has passed away, 
What matter where our bodies lay? 
Loreene. We suppose the heavenly portals are open, 
Her soul to usher in ; 
Her soul so pure, so heavenly pure, 

So entirely free from sin. 
And, oh, why then do we weep, 

For her soul is undefiled? 
And if we're good, and there is a heaven, 

There we'll meet our child. 
As to whether there is a heaven, of course. 

No living mortal knows. 
We only know we live, love and die; 

Are doomed to a long repose. 
That there is a meeting place for us 

We do sincerely trust, 
For it seems that God, who endowed us with love. 

Can see that our need is just. 
But whether our child we ever meet again, 

To part i.s the common lot; 
So we'll hope to meet, lay her in earth, 

And love the sacred spot ! 
Yes, our darling we'll lay in the grave, 

And never cease to love her ; 
She shall rest neath a tree in the shade 
And flowers shall bloom above her. 



ZKLINUA. 179 

ACT V. 

Scene 1. A room — Carleton's hoiiK!. Enter Mrs. C'arloton. 

Mrs. C Striino;c; what changes a year will brinn;. 

Twelve months ago, — Oh, God ! — 
Elma was alive, and so was darling 

Little Birdie, too. 
Now resting 'neath the sod 

Are those two. 

Enter Otis, dressed in deep mourning, reading a letter — not 
noticing Mrs. Carleton. 

Otis. What ! An lieiress and going to Italy with her father! 

"Don't know how to re])ay you for saving me 

From that horrible life with the Padre; — 

Am very, very sorry that you have lost 

Your loving wife and child " 

Oh, mother, you are here ! 
Mrs. C. A letter ! Read it to me, dear. 
Otis. Yes. 'Tis from Miss Zelinda. 

It informs me that she's an heiress. 

And going to Italy. 
Mrs. C. An heiress! You don't say ! — 

And who is her father, pray? 
Otis. Count Pcrugini, an Italian. 

Mrs. 0. But how did she learn that he was her father? 
Otis. The Padre was one day taken ill. 

And sent word to her by little Will 

That he was dying; for her to come immediately; 

That he would tell her something that concerned 

[her greatly; 

That she could bring along a dozen men or maids, 

Or come alone — that she needn't be afraid. 



She went. He confessed that slie'd been stolen away 

For spite from Count Perugini of Italy. 

He told her where to find her father, and how 

He was ever looking to find her novv, 

And told her how to make herself to him known 

By circumstances which were known to him alone. 

And she heeded the words of the dying padre ; 

Made herself known to her father, and he 

Is one of the happiest men on earth to-day; 

And they will sail next week for Italy. 
M7's. C. So she really is an heiress. 

Good fortune for the governess. 

Let us write her to call, or call on her. 
Otifi. We'll send an invitation for her and her father. 

Mrs. C. Yes. 
Otis. I'll write them now. Let me see — when. Say 

We invite them to call about Wednesday ? 
3Irs. C. Yes, — Wednesday eve. 

{Exit Otis.) 

I can hardly believe 

That she's an heiress, but we'll see. 

Her father the noble Perugini? 

Well, well, I can hardly wait to see her. 

{Exit.) 
SoENK 2. A grand parlor. C'arletou's home. Zelinda, Per- 
ugini, Otis, Anton, Lucile, Mrs. Carleton, Mi-, and Mrs. 
Loreene, Peter, friends, visitors, etc. 

(Jhorus. How fortunate you were, Count, 

To find your long lost daughter. 
(j)unt P. Y"es, there's no man beneath the sky, 

Who is happier than I. 

None who've lireater cause to be, 



For Zclinda is all the world to rae. 
Chorus. Aud we have heard, Count, 

That you're going to cross the water- 
Count P. Yes, so we are, — oh, yes. 
Our tickets are bought. 
You see I thouglit 
That I had ought 
To take Zelinda to the old home, where — 

Where she was born. 
She used to play 'mong the flowers there. 
In her early morn ; 
And she wishes to visit the tomb 
Of her fond loving mother, whom 
The loss of her child drove to despair. 
In a vault near a tree 
That doth bend and wave 
Whose branches and leaves are stirred 
By the wanton breezes free, 
Where gaily sings the wild bird — 
In the silent, silent grave. 
Her mother — the heart of hearts lies there. 
(Pauses, overcome with emotion.) 
Chorus. Zelinda has borne great sorrows, true, 
Yet her trouble was light. Count, 
Compared with yours. 
Don't you think we're right. Count? — 

Years her grief cures. 
You grieved o'er the loss of two ; 
She of lost ones but little or nothing knew, 

So young was she. 
Your hair is white as snow. Count. 
'Tis not with age. we know. Count. 



XKL/.\J>A. 



No ; we can sec 
On your tacc the trace of care 
And of your heart's distress printed there. 
Count P. You're right ; 'twas sorrow, not years, 

That turned my hair so white. 
But ne'er again will I shed tears. 

Now burns my heart with pure delighc. 

{Ensembk.) 

Loreene. Aye, — for youi(4ibffle recovered, "and- lost one. 
But 1— My heart— Oh, God !— 
My darling only child and her little one 
Are sleeping 'neath the sod. 
Mrs. C. (Aside.) Now his heart is filled with pure delight; 
'Tis running o'er with bliss. 
How disagreeable Zelinda was that night, — 
Now how fascinating she is ! 
Otis. (Aside.) He's happy, for he's recovered one lost 
But I- — My grief is deep. [one ; 

H^lma, my wife, and my darling little one, 
Are sleeping the everlasting sleep. 
ZeL {Aside.} Pa's happy, for I'm restored to him now; 

But poor Otis' heart is sore. 
The flame of bliss has grown dim now — 
Those sleepers none can restore. 
Peter-. (Aside.) He's happy now, for his child he's recov- 
J'm as ha]>py as ever, for [ered. 

I'm friendless and foeless, so far's I've discovered. 
I've none to lose or restore. 
Lucile. (Aside.) He's happy, for he's recovered his lost one. 
Very well, — Though I'd rather 
Men'd never be happy. They're wicked, every one — 
All of them, e'en iiiv father. 



ZELINDA. \m 

Scene 3. Next day. A garden. Enter Peter Cole. 

Peter. We had a good time last night. 

Well, 1 should say 

The night passed pleasantly away. 
But Anton said 'twas time lost, quite. 

He's jealous of Otis, I see. 

Well, well, with Puck I agree — 
For the sentiment's hit exactly, when he says, 

''What fools these mortals be!" 
Cupid leads them in love's snare. 
Then they sigh and flutter there. 
Little cupid, on the wing. 
Loves to make the fools' hearts sting; 
But he ne'er yet captured me. 
I love none — my heart is free ! 
He's found he can't move my heart a jot. 
There's none I love, and I hate not. 

I'm a friend to all, 

Young, old, and small. 
Of this love business I'm so sick ! 
Oh, I'd rather be a regular stoic 

Than a love-sick fool ! 
Countess Zelinda has promised to remain a few days. 

She and the Count, too, 
And I won't be surprised if she stays here always. 
Otis'U ask her and she'll ask papa; 
But 'twont excite me much — the wedding. Bah ! 

What do marriages amount to? [Exit Peter.) 

Scene 4 The Parlor. (As Scene 2.) Enter Otis and Ze- 
I.INDA, conversing. 

Otis. The happiest man on earth I'll be. 



If to me your luuid you'Jl give. 
I've loved you long and earnestly, 
And will love you while I live. 
Zel. You love me? 

Olis. Yes, that I love you I solemnly vow; 

Now list to me; — 
fjong years before I met you, — 
Well, to tell the solemn truth, 
I had pledged my heart and hand to 

El ma in my early youth. 
She loved me and I loved her. 
And stronger our love grew. 
The years that glided by were 

To j)rove whethei- our hearts were true. 
I loved, I loved her, oh, so sincerely. 
We were engaged, the day was set, 
But my love, oh my heart, changed entirely 
That night when you I met. 
(Anton sidles softly in, and hides behind screen.) 
Zel. I can hardly believe you loved me, or 

If you did, what was it for? 
Otis. Your beautifid face. 

Zel. My beautiful face? 

Otis. (Throwing his arms aboid her.) 

Yes, dear, I've loved you since that night. 
Zel. (^Freeing herself from him.) 

Mr. Carleton, I detest this loving at first ni^ht. 

What does a love amount to 
That loves for beauty — for eyes that are bright? 
For coral lips shutting o'er rows of pearls? 
For bewitching smiles and lovely long curls? 
Foi- tinv white hands and little feet? 



ZKLIXDA. 1«5 

When, ix"rha|)s, tlio heart is full of deceit? 
I disliUe it, indeed; I do. 
OUh. Zelinda! 

Zd. Mr. Carleton, let ine tell you — stand there — 

I've always most highly esteemed you. 
One of the noblest of men I've deemed you ; 
But now that I scorn you, I declare. 

I never dreamt that you'd be so iguoble 

As to e'er think of tnarrying again ; 
I thought you sincerely loved El ma, 

And was the truest and noblest of men. 
But she's only been slumbering one year, 

And in the deepest of mourning you stand, 
Calling me your loved one, your dear, 

And offering me your heart and hand. 
But I not oidy reject your offer, 
But seon?. you, sir, for offering. 
Your wife is your M?(/e just the same, 

Though 'neath the mould she's slumbering. 
I have loved, oh, devotedly loved you ; 

For nine long years you I've loved, 
For I deemed you a husband faitliful and true. 

But now your fickh'ness vou've prov'ed. 
J rejoiced in youi- happiness and your welfare. 

And j)iayed for your child and wife, 
And when she and the little one were sick, 
1 prayed God to spare their life. 

1 vowed that you should ne'er know that I loved 
That but to God 'twould e'er be known; [you. 



Hut 1 have t(^kl you now, and also that 
From thifi time on my hearths my oxon ! 

Anton. [Aside, behind screen.) 

Thank God, I stand a show now, 

For winning; both her heart and hand ; 
The reason she's refused nie heretofore 
I now fully understand. 
Otia. You call me ignoble for offering my hand, 

And for loving you. Can I help whom I love, 
And do not the best of men ott marry twice? 
Zel. No, not the be.'^tof them — some of the most ])opu- 

[lar do. 
But none shonld marry without loving their wife, 
And should always prove true. 
Otis'. But what if the wife were untrue? 

Zel. That was just what I was going to say — why then 

If she's to blame for the separation, he may marry 
If that were the case with you — [again. 

If El ma had proved untrue, 
And you then to me your hand should proffer, 
I would most happily accept the offer. 
But Elma was a faithful, loving wife; 
She ever strove to make happy your life. 
Otis. 1 — I know — but you are ungrateful. 

Zel. I understand you, but am not ungrateful. 

You saved me from that dreadful life. 
For the which I am very — more than thankful, 

But cannot become your second wife. 
My heart's best wishes are yours, 
And if money can repay you. 
Any sum you name is yours. 
No more than this can I do. 



■/.El.lSDA. IbV 

OVia. Voii know that I cai-c not for money ; 

So then I am to under.stand 
That your heart's best wishes arc mine. 
But you will not ^ive me your hand? 
Zel. Yes, I feel j^rateful to you. Mr. Carleton, 

For savino- me from that life, 
And for beino; the means of my finding my father. 
But will never be your second wife. 
0th. Oh, God,— what shall 1 do? 

Zd. Prove unto Elma a husband true, 

Prepare to meet her above, 
Be good and kind to your mother. 

And I will respect you and love, — 
Not as a husband but ji brother. 
Anton. (Aside) There still is hope for me. 
Otis. {After a pause .) 

Oh, now my fickleness I see. 

You have set me up a glass 
Wherein myself I scan ; 

I see what you've said is true. Alas ! 
I see Pm not a man. 

My love for you has made me lose 
Both your and EhuCs love. 

My proffered heart and hand you refuse, 
Elma frowns on me from above! 
Zel. No, Elma is a woman of noble worth. 

She's an angel in Heaven as she was on earth. 
Ever loyal and true. 
She will forgive you, 

If of your mistake you icpent 
And ask her forgiveness. 
Otia. I — I will ask her forfriveness. 



ZEIJ.\i)A. 



And will jioii forgivi' me, too '! 
I see iill my heart's fickleness. 
But couldn't help lovin^i' you. 
Zcl. I know cue can't help whom they love; 

I have loved you and can ne'er love another. 
I will fori^ive you if to Elma you f'aitiif'nl prove, 
And still love you, — but as a brother. 
Anton. {Aside.} She can ne'er love another; 
Then I am lost. 

{Ensemble. ) 
Otis. I will not ask your hand ajjjain, 

And will faithful to Elma prove ; 
Will redeem my lost manhood, and then 
As a brother will claim your love. 
Zel. Yes, Otis, I will love you fondly then, 

If a faithful husband you prove: 
When your heart goes back to Elma ao;ain 
Claim as of a sister my love. 
Anton. (Aside.) I — I can ne'er, ne'er win her, then, 
What a wretched thinu; is love ! 
But I — I will press my suit again. 
Though a failure it doth prove. 
{Exit Anto7i, and then re-enter.) 
Anton. Mr. Carleton, — excuse me for interrupting 

You, but your mother — 
Otis. True, I had forgotten her. {to Zelinda.) 

Excuse me for a moment. {Exit.) 

Anton. Countess Zelinda, you have twice refused mo. 
Yet I offer myself once again. 
My fondest hoi)c is to win your hand; 
Tell me plainly if that hope is vain. 
\yhat disaj)pointed love is you surely understand, 



But tell Die plainly just what — 
Or — that is, if there's hope or not. 
Zel. There is none, Mr. Clarewood. 

No, 1 '-lo not love you, 
And will not accept your offer. 1 love 
Auotlier as you love me, 
(At least as you say you do,) 
And will never, never, give my hand wdiere 
The heart can never be. 

Re-enter Otis, Mrs. Carleton, Mr. and Mrs. Loreene, Peter, 
Lucille, Perugini, friends, etc. 

Chorus. Ah ! here she is, — the Countess, our Queen, 
Peter. (Looking from windoio.) 

Come, come to the window and see ! 
Chorus. {Rush to the window.) 

There's nothing to be seen, 
That we can see at all ; 

What was it you saw ? 
Why did you call ? 
Peter. What was it? Pshaw! 
I didn't see anything. 
C/iorus. You didn't see anything? 
Lucille. (Aside.) That's as thin as water and chalk. 
Chorus. Then, why did you call us to the window, pray? 
Peter. Oh, I just wanted to talk. 

'Pon my soul I couldn't think what else to say. 
Chorus. Well, well, very strange; ha! ha! ha! 
Count P. {Draws Zelinda aside.} 

I overheard your convensatiou 
With Mr. Carleton a moment ago. 

And 'tis past my comprehension 



ZELIXDA. 



Whv you condemn twice marrying so. 
Did not great Csesar wed several times, 
And great Marc. Antony, too ? 
Zd. Yes, immortal Caius Julius Csesar 

Had many wives, true. 
Two had Antony, and other men of note 

Have married two or three. 
They were great and to be 'publicly praised, 
But not respected personally. 
Count P. Zelinda, my child, you astonish me. 
Zel. Why so ? 

Count P. Oh, they were famous men. 
Zd. True. Great men they were, but — well, 

Every one to their notion. 
I think the noblest qualities of man 

Lie in home devotion. 
Though he's called a tartar, a wretch. 

By the world, or publicly, 
And still is a devoted husband and father, 

He's worthy of a home on high. 
For the greatest office he has to fill 

On all this great earth, 
Is to love and care for his own, and doing so, 
He's a man of great worth. 
Cmmt P. And didn't Mr. Carletou always do so? 
Wasn't he a faithful husband, pray ? 
But now that his wife's laid low. 

If he chooses to marry again — he may. 
Zel. Your way of thinking may be right, 

But still I cling to my way. 
I'm like the cottage girl, tho' death's ta'en her, 
She's still his wife T sav. 



Would I uot be your child the same, 
Though slumbering neath the mould ? 

Would you not love me as your child, 
Though I lay dumb and cold? 

You would not be like the animals are, 

My own father, would you, 
And cease to love, or forget me, 

Were I laid away from view ? 

And 'tis the same way with man and wife, — 

Dispute it he who can. 

Who has morn'n one wife living or dead. 

Disgraces the name of man. 

Count P. Zelinda, I think with Carleton 

You'd live a happy life. 

Zel. Father, speak no more of this, 

I will not be his second wife. 

Count P. Well, well, child, your ideas are certainly very odd. 

Men have married twice and thrice, yet not con- 

[demned of God. 
Zel. How do you know? 

We creatures here below 

Know uot what he condemns or praises. 

For sometimes to the bad is given success, 
And sometimes to the good 'tis given. 

So how are we to know, any mor'n to guess. 
Which is praised or condemned of heaven ? 

But we know right from wrong ; 
And 'tis the duty of every one. 

As through this life we journey along, 

To help to undo what's been vyrongly done. 

{Ensemble.) 



1(12 ZKLISDA. 

Count p. Yes, my fluid, 'tis the duty of every one, 
Of every true life 'tis ;i noble part, 
To help to undo what's been \vroug:ly done. 
Those feel in*>;,s are planted in each true heart. 

Zel. Yes, my father, 'tis the duty of every oue. 

Of each true life 'tis a noble part, 
To help to undo what's been wrongly done. 
Such feelings are planted in each true heart. 

Otis. {Aside.) I've heard every word, though they've 

[talked low. 
She's the uoblest woman on all this earth. 
At first it seemed hard to be balked so, 

But she's shown me what her advice is worth. 

Loreene. {Aside to Mrs. Loreene.) 

What they've been saying, the count and countess. 

Shows that our son-in-law's been choosing 
Her for his second wife, and God bless 

Her say I ; she's noble for refusing. 

Mrs. Car. {Aside.) The count says 'tis the duty of everyone. 
What's been done wrong to help undo ; 
But she's very foolish for refusing my son. 
Years will prove what I prophesy is true. 

Peter. {Aside.) Just as I expected, he's asked the countess 
To become his second wife, but she 
Has most too flatly refused him, I guess, 
And that's just how I thought 'twould be. 



I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I i 8 



8 I I I I I I 



CHERRY CREEK. 



This piece should have been placed among my group ol Colorado Poems, but 
was written too late. 



The day is pleasant, yet there's some cloud 

In the southwest; like an awaiting shroud 

To fold about this day that's soon to die. 

The sun shines, — all is pleasant to the sense and eye — 

What alarum is that — those whistles and bells ? 

Hark ! — can it be? Yes, if the alarum truly tells. 

Cherry Creek that was a moment ago dry and quiet, 
Is now leaping, dashing, like a city in riot. 
Like a tornado the water comes from the mountain. 
Throwing sprays high in air as does the fountain. 
Dashing, flowing, throwing, leaping, turning. 
Like flames leap and play where a house is burning. 

It leaps over bridges it meets on its way, 
And oft tears them down in its boisterous play. 
It is drunk, and it cares not how it behaves. 
(It has often sent human's to their graves.) 
As often some men do go out on a spree. 
And smash and tear about in their drunken glee. 



iDDiriOXA T. PIECKS. 



When their sj)ree's over, they see what they've sqiian- 

[dered — 
They settle down and wish they had pondered. 

So Cherry Creek, when it has phiyed its wild pranks, 

Settles down ; its water spreads out on its banks, 

And there lies like one in a doze. 

Its water soon disappears as it placidly flows, 

And then for perhaps long; months it is waterless; 

Like a stoic — friendless, wifeless, sonless, daughterless. 



MRS. A. JACOB'S ADVICE. 



The following speech by Mrs. .\. Jacobs appeared in the Denver THhu.ne- 
Republican, a lew weeks ago. "If every church in tliis city would take care of 
its own poor, there would be no use for Relief Societies. If every lady in Den- 
vei-, who can atford it, would take one family and lift it from the slums of ig- 
norfiiut" ami poverty to a plane of civilization, bodily comfort and mental 
liiilit, thiii charity would bo making rapid strides. Until that Is done, little 
good can lie accomplished." 



Oh, we could make earth most a heaven 
By practicing the advice she has given, — 
By dividing earth's products more even 

Each could have a well buttered-slice. 
Goading poverty from earth could be driven 

By practicing Mrs. Jacob's advice. 

What are these Relief Societies good for? 

They never drive the wolf from the poor's door; 

There are ever as many suffering as before 

They were founded or begun. 
Tliey pretend to send relief to the heathen shore. 

Our sufferers thev relieve not one. 



ADDITTONAL PIECES. 

Let the heathen of themselves take care, 
Let our fortunate with our unfortunate share, 
And the cases of sufferini^ would be rare ; 

A socialistic people are we then. 
(They know nothing of what is sent there, 

To relieve their want, — the heathen.) 

January 8, 1S86. 



SHAKESPEARIAN BACONIAN BUR- 
TONIAN. 



With regards to this Shakespearian-Baconian-Burtonian 
question, theory, dispute, (what you will,) I would farther say 
that, since 1 wrote the verses and note, "Shakespeare's or Ba- 
con's?" on page 58, I rea(i another column in the Thibune- 
Republican, by ''Multum in Parvo." It was written to show 
that Burton was the author of the Shakespearian works. And 
it went on to say that Shakespeare co^dd not have been the 
auth(n- of those great works, for that he was known to be a 
not highly educated man. What has '^highly educated'^ got to 
do with tru/y great wits, broad knovdedge, high and mighty 
thoughts f Nothing ; or but little, at most. Knowledge, sense 
or greatness never came through education ; they are nature's 
gifts. A moderate education is all that a great writer would 
require. Look at the works of the poets who were highly 
educated — Samuel Rogers, Kirke White, Milton, David Gray, 
Pope, etc., and compare those works with Byron's, Burn's, 
Hood's — their works stand far above the works of those highly 
educated poets. So, if Shakespeare was but slightly educated, 
we need not infer from that that he was not the author of 
those mighty works. Too, I say, as Mrs. Dall says — "His 



1% ADDITTONAL PIEOE>S. 

authorship was uot (juestioned 280 years ago by people wlio 
knew him; why should it be to-day?" I might add, — those 
works would lose their inspiringly high tone, should we call 
them Bacon's or Burton's. (Of course, there's nothing in a 
name, and yet the name — Shakesj)eare — does add to the sub- 
limity of the works. The works are rare, and the name is, 
also — most as much so as Jesus Christ, God, Devil, Csesar, etc.) 
Oh, for mercy's sake — if not for that, for the sublimity or 
romance of the name, let those works still be as they have 
been — (credited to the pen of William Shakespeare. 

POPE AND POE,--COLE AND COE. 



There are two pairs of poets or bards. 

Two widely known — Pope and Foe; 
And two "scarcely knowns," though "try hards' 

Or "would be poets," — Cole and Coe. 

Foe and Fope every body knows, I guess ; 

For they are each a genuine poet. 
Coe's sort of a bard, I sort of a l)ardess — 

Our works do plainly show it. 

Foe's works are good, Pope's are grand, 

Coe's writings will cleverly pass. 
But as to where Cole's will rank or stand — 

Daren't predict for this bardess. A.las ! 



.January :!, l.ss(i. 




Wr 



OR 

ALL IS WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 

A STORY-POEM. 



To my mother, Alexina Brown Cole Gleaxon, this Story Poem is affectionately in- 
scribed. 



MOTHER. 

"ThoiiKh tliv soul with my sin(>f was acquainted, 

It shnink not to sliaro it Willi inp; 

And ihr Invo wliicli my sjiirit liath painted, 

It newr liatli louiul hut in thee.' — liyron. 

You are my fir.'^t, la.st and truest friend, 

Sweet mother, you are. 
Thougli many in sunshine to be friends pretend, 

Tliey fly fast and far, 
When dark clouds do gather in the sky, 
Ijike the wild geese do southward fly 
When the winter time is draAving nigh. 

You're the only star 
That shines on me through the gloom. 
The only flower that sheds round me perfume 

To sweeten the air. 
When sick, alone they'd leave me in my room. 

But you are thei'c. 
Early nipp't w'ould've been my life-bloom 

I5ut for your care. 
When storm clouds do hover o'er me, 



hSZiUilA PA [NE. 

Yoli as a shield stand before me, 
So that should those angry clouds break 
You the brunt of the storm would take. 
Wheu e'er fate looks on me with a frown, 
When my bright uir-castles tumble down, 

You as ever before 
Firm and steadfast by me stand, 

And from the lieart's core, 
Soothing with words and stroking with hand, 

Help to smooth't o'er ; 
Like the hot iron the rumpled cloth smoothes, 
So your kind council my troubled heart soothes. 

Yes, my own mother, 
Though friends and lovers have oft forsaken, 

Your love like none other 
Remained, and remains, constant and unshaken; 

So I deem a mother's love 
The purest and richest gem on earth, 
The only love of lasting and real worth; 

'Tis all other loves abt)ve. 
So, mother, as you're the truest of all 

That pretend to be true, 
Of my writings my favorite of all 

I inscribe to vou. 



TO MY READERS. 

You will undoubtedly think as I think, 
That this poem's really no gem, 

But 1 longed to use my pen and ink. 
So 1 wrote this stor^ -poem. 



IS/jOHJA I'AINE. 

As I had [)l('nty of" paper and time, 

This simple subject chose I; 
Should've told't in prose instead of rhyme, 

This story-poem prosy. 

I call it a story-poem because 

'Tis a story told in verse; 
ThoiiirJi not high poetry, it passes or does, 

And there're many poems worse. 

Is all well that ends well, though? 

Should you ask me this plain, 
I'd say, Certainly I know 'tis so, 

And prove't by "Iszoria Paine." 

Though three-fourths of your lifetime 

Be mid sunny j)leasure cast, 
It all grows bleak, 'tis not sublime 

If the last part in misery's passed. 

Though the greater part of a story 

Is with bright thoughts rife, 
Though two-thirds is prevalcut with glory. 

Yet ends with discord, strife — 

W'e throw the book aside with disgust; 

All that's beea written's marred ; 
Like a fiat-iron cankered with rust, 

We say, "Tisn't worth regard." 

And tlien another story you'll read. 
Where perhaps full two-thirds 

Is so dull you can luii'dly proceed ; 
Small the point; many the words. 



ISZOlilA PAIXE. 

Yet you'd read it over again, 

For oh, so well it ended ! 
It seemed no dull parts to contain ; 

The whole story was — splendid ! 

I^ike a painting, no matter how very dull 

Are the first coats of paint, 
'Tis the finishing strokes or completion full 

That draws praise or complaint. 

So though three-fourths of your life time 

Be mid sunny pleasures cast, 
It all grows bleak, 'tis not sublime, 

If the last part in misery's passed. 



I. 

"There are two sculptors, who with chisels fine 
Render the plainest features half divine. 
All other artists strive and strive in vain 
To picture beauty perfect and complete. 
Their statues only crumble at their feet, 
Without the master touch of faith and pain." 

—Mia Wheeler. 

Iszoria Paine was not a fairy, Venus or angel divine. 
As is of most stories or poems the heroine. 
Of neither gold nor silver was her hair, 
And her complexion was not so alabaster fair; 
Her eyes were not of the heavenly azure hue ; 
They were large and expressive and very dark blue. 
And what was within the soul they couldn't screen, 
Those large clear eyes, sapient, serene. 
Her heart was often merry, but couldn't erase 
The pathetic look care had painted on her face; 
Though she'd often merrily sing, laugh and smile, 
That patient, pain-endurinsr expression was tl.ere the 
while. 



ISZORTA PATXE. 

Is to form and size sho was just about riirht; 

Well developed, about five feet three inches in height. 

Her hair which was long and of color light brown 

In natural ringlets o'er her shoulders fell down ; 

Her ears were small and straight was her nose ; 

Rosy were the lips that parted over two rows 

Of teeth that were as white as milk or pearl ; 

And all these features made her a fine looking girl, — 

Yet not a siren, enchantress or goddess. 

A heroine ? Yes. You may think it odd, Mess 

You read to the end my story or strain, 

Why I choose for my heroine — Iszoria Paine. 



II. 

"How o'er it l)e it seems to ine 

'Tis only ii()|)1p to be goo<l— 
Kind lioai-ts are more llian coronets, 

And simple laith than Norman blood." 

— Tennyson. 

Iszoria Paine threw herself into a reclining chair, 

Near by a window, where the refreshing air, 

Pure and fresh from the mountain, yet mildly warm, 

Fanned with balmy breath her brow, breast, and bare arm. 

For she to make her evening toilet had just begun. 

Shoulders were bared, and one arm, sleeved was the other 

one; 
And lovely's a picture she looked, as you may guess, 
As she sat there, while the sun with stealthy eagerness 
Crept through the half parted shutters and curtain, 
(Like a detective, who's found his "man," sure, certain,— 
Yet with stealthy, eager glance follows him abo'it, 
Till positive "ds the right one beyond a doubtj 



1 LSXOJiJA PAINK. 

And ciist o'er her ringlets :i pale goldish ray, 

As in clusters the soft brown beauties lay — 

Beautiful as dreams or as fairy elves ; 

Now golden, now brown, as thev lay sunning themselves. 

And the sun o'er her cashmere dress of ice-blue. 

Now a golden and now a rose tint threw ; 

And its pale rays glimmered and glanced with unrest 

Upon her bare arm and pearl white breast. 

And sitting in the balmy air and sun's soft gleam, 

She soon fell into a doze and dreamt a dream. 

She dreamt she was traveling, and long had been, 

On a rough mountain path where never a scene 

(^f beauty nor flower ever greeted her eye, 

But that should she gaze 'pon it as journeying by, 

The scene would vanish, the flower wither before her, 

And dark angry storm-clouds would gather o'er her. 

She journeyed on ; dark precipices she crossed, 

And leaped over gullies where hundreds had been lost. 

And huge rocks — she climbed over all these. 

For they were put there her patience to tease, 

And to not climb o'er them, through fear or dread, 

Was to die there, or fall lower ; but a path ahead, 

\^ery lovely and smooth, was gained by all who 

(Jl imbed o'er them and the storm pressed through. 

So on she went. Though sad, nought did she blame. 

She patiently pressed forward. P^inally she came 

To the smooth path with lovely scenes along the way, 

And all was beautiful as a bright May day. 

She hoped she might never this smooth road lose, 

And she was s<j happy that she couldn't but choose 

To thank God for't. As thanking him, aloud she spoke 

And her dream tiien vanished, and she awoke. 



isy-oRiA jfAiyK. 



She arose and was completing her toilet, but when 

'Twas near completed, sighing, she sat down again. 

"Oh, why it was or is 1 really cannot tell. 

That I came aiid still remain at this hotel. 

Nine days have I been here. Why did I come, 

And why remain here when I should be at home, — 

I, — Iszoria Paine, at this extravagant place? 

Why, I'm ashamed to see in the glass my own face. 

The contents of my purse would all disappear, 

If but a few months I should remain here; 

The whole gone of the few hundreds that I have 

Been trying so long and economizing to save. 

Well I — I'll ask my better sense to speak, — 

Shall 1 go now or stay the rest of this week ? 

I — well let me see, I came here on Monday, 

And I guess I'd better stay till about next Sunday. 

That will be just two weeks to the day 

Since I came; and should I longer stay, 

I might get ac(piainted with some of the guests; 

And so 'twere best to leave as good sense suggests. 

But while I stay, I'll be like a sprite or elf. 

See all, yet keep myself pretty well to myself. 

Yes, I'll keep my distance like a wild deer. 

I guess there's no one I want to know here." 

So saying, she again 'rose from her seat, 

And began once more her toilet to complete. 

Her ringlets were left in their natural loveliness. 

Of soft black cashmere was her half fitting dress ; 

For she wore everything loose, not one tight garment. 

With the form Nature gave her she was content. 

She claimed 'twas not agreeable with health and sense. 

This wearing tight garments, to make — slim ornaments. 



ISXAJJilA I'AjyK. 

No bracelets encircled her pretty dimpled wrists, 

Nor necklace, nor rings, diamonds nor amethysts 

Adoi-ned her ; the only ornament she wore 

Was a fresh rose and bud and leaves three or four. 

Thus she dressed herself. Her toilet was done. 

And as just sinking to rest was the sun, 

She decided for her evening's pastime 

To sit upon the porch and admire the sublime 

Scenery. A lovlier landscape ne'er met one's gaze 

Than this mountain scenery in the sun's dying rays. 

Many shades the sinking sun o'er the landscape threw ; 

And this resort hotel commanded a grand view 

Of the picturesque scenery and surrounding country. 

'Twas situated on a mound or hill very high, 

From a large eastern city only a short distance. 

Iszoria had determined to ini])r()ve this chance 

Of seeing fine scenery, so out she went. 

There were but two persons there, so 'twas quite evident 

That the other guests were out riding, or gone 

To some city entertainment, or to visit some one. 

So, unnoticed by the two she sat down there; 

Nor noticed them any more than that they were 

Men, not women. The landscape she admired ; 

So beautiful, it seemed she could ne'er grow tired 

Of seeing it; the sun was sinking low in the West, 

Down, so it seemed, behind the mountains to rest. 

And it left a half-circle as it went down, 

Very dazzling bright, like a golden crown ; 

And one peak like an aged man with hoary hair, 

Alone seemed that glittering crown to wear. 

And while this portion of the sky is gleaming, 

The eastern portion, like one asleep and peacefully dreaming. 




[he movintain's side 
glides a stream or river — 
There is a narrow place, as if 

its bed had shrunken ; 
Thiough tliis its water stag- 
gers—rumbles like 'twere 
drunken, 
Then falls down a dizzy sleep on the other i 
And mingles with liie water in the river deep 
and wide. 

—Page 209. 



IISZORIA PAINE. a lit 

Is clear pale blue aud pink, serene, traiKpiil ; 

And to gaze upon it so serene and still, — 

Its still, cold aspect would almost make you shiver. 

Down the mountain's side glides a stream or river. 

There is a narrow place, as if its bed had shrunken; 

Through this its water staggers,rumbles like 'tweredrunkeu, 

Then falls down a dizzy steep on the other side, 

Aud mingles with the water in the river deep and wide. 

The noise it makes is stirring loud when near. 

But at a distance, as it falls upon the ear. 

It is pleasing to the sense, and ever sure to suit 

All poetic ears as the music of a lute; 

Or perhaps 'twere to romance-loving ears more sweet. 

Iszoria bad never seen a picture more complete 

Than this landscape, and faintly heard and seen waterfall ; 

And the globe-like sky shutting over the immense all. 

The sun seemed to her like an eye of the Supreme, 

Just closing itself that He might sleep and dream. 

It filled her with thoughts that I cannot unfold. 

Sweetest songs are never sung; let these thoughts go untold. 

Her elbow rests 'pon her knee, on her hand she leans 

Her head, and thinks, and admires all the scenes. 

Long the changeful evening shades did she watch. 

Now the thread of conversation she began to catch ; 

They had been arguing Christianity and infidelity, — 

Now the subject was changed to a life history ; 

And in their conversation they were deeply lost. 

These gentlemen — lico Salvini and Rev. Dr. Ghost. 

Iszoria listened attentively, yet, pretended to be 

Admiring the eventide scene and fine scenery. 

"Doctor, you ask me to relate my life history, 

Biit reallv I know of no words with which I 



ISZORIA PAINE. 



Could make plain or clearly portray to you 
The load of troubles that I have gone through ; 
My heart's long been shrouded in black agony, 
But it now seems to be gradually wearing away. 
I was born and lived in Montreal, to the age 
Of eleven. First will say, I'm of Italian parentage ; 
As of course by my name you already know. 
And then born in Canada? And how came it so? 
Should I not tell all, thus you might marvel, — 
Unless my story like a tangled skein I unravel." 
"Please unravel it, unless you think it too long. 
I've heard your history, but perhaps heard wrong. 
For too many often talk or go telling around 
Things for which there is no ground ; 
And when talk's started it travels near and far, 
Especially where the talked of one is very popular." 
"No, doctor, of this let us talk no more. 
You've heard many stories like mine before. 
To you whose life is far from discord, strife, 
To hear of the steep ups or deep downs in one's life 
It may seem sweet; for me 'twere not so pleasant. 
■ Yes, for me there's enough of grief in the present, 
Without again traveling through sorrows of the past. 
In memory's mirror there is a shadow cast; 
I would not look into that mirror often. 
The reflections there couldn't soothe or soften 
Hard sorrows; but perhajxs the reflections I see there 
Are not true pictures of the things that were; 
Though drawn mostly from what I know 
Was reality, partly from what I hear was so. 
As to the history of my parents, I cannot say 
How much of what's told me is reality ; 



IHZORIA PAIXE. 21 

Let it all rest, they are both 'neath the mould, 
Let all their faults aud perfeetions go untold. 
Should we say they were faultless, such and such, 
We know not but we're praising them over much ; 
Should we say that faults they had many a one, 
Perhaps great wrong to those sleepers we've done; 
So let them and their histories peacefully rest. 
Which one, you or I, is best and acts best? 
Or you might say, which is surest of wearing wings? 
And how foolish 'twere to bother about such things. 
We're weeds or flowers, either that falls to our lot. 
Why we're often what we wouldn't be we don't know. 
Oh, we are eacii planted in a certain spot, 
Till we are transplanted, — there we have to grow. 
So doctor let us talk no more of this. 
Perhaps what you've heard of it the truth is. 
Maybe not. However, let the subject rest. 
Or for the present." 

*'Be it then as you suggest. 
And yet, sir, you surely cannot or do not blame 
Me for hearing and repeating to you the same? 

'"Oh, no, I don't blame you" 

"Of course not. Very well. 
Suppose I the outlines of what I've heard tell ? 
I have heard that like this the matter stood — 
Your male parent could boast of noble blood ; 
Noble, if nobleness lies in having power of commanding, 
Through being Ijorn to parents of high standing. 
Your mother was an orphan peasant girl, 
Perhaps as to purity, a diamond or pearl. 
Well, they went to Canada and married were. 
And after about a year they had lived there, 



: iszoRiA PAiyic. 

He loft her, as she was a mother to become, — 
Returned to his friends and liis southern home. 

And then after " 

Salvini gasped, "Psh, stop, hold ! 
Or you'll set me afire, or turn my blood cold." 
His hands trembled, his head drooped low, 
And he sat as meditating a minute or so ; 
Then clenching his hands and raising his head, 
In a low, earnest, pleading voice he said, — 
"Oh, why does God give serpents the power 
To draw sweet birds to them to devour?" 
"It is very strange ; yet, as it is so, why, 
It will be so ; and we can but — sigh. 
We try to keep innocents from satan's clutch. 
But tp insnare them — nothing pleases him so much ! 
I'm sorry I've said aught your feelings to jar. 
Yet might's well tell all as I've gone this far. 
When you were five, your mother was called to the grave, 
And the neighbors you to the city authorities gave ? 
They took you to an orphan asylum, where you 
Were knocked about as though a dog were you ; 
Six months you remained there uncared for, when 
You were adopted by a wealthy, childless pair; then 
You were pampered, petted, fondled and caressed. 
And were kept in silks and laces dressed. 
They petted you so you grew quite delicate. 
Thus things went on till your age was eight. 
Unfortunately for you there was born to them a son, 
Then for you kind treatment they had none ?" 
"Yes, and soon I was given to or adopted by 
Some Germans, and really tliey did try 
To make me work as a Southerner would a slave ; 



I.SZORIA PAIXE. 21.« 

And a straw l)etl in a cokl room they gave. 

And I lived 'mong these wretches' sneers and jeers 

Till 1 reached the age of eleven years." 

And he nieditatingly bowed iiis head. 

And after a pause of a second or two, 

Reverend Ghost, with sympathetic earnestness, said, 

"And what next, Mr. Salvini, did you do?" 

*'I then managed to get through to New York, 

And did what 1 could get to do of job work. 

After I'd been there a while, I finally got into 

A boarding school and did what they wished me to do, 

To pay my way. My stay there was of six years duration ; 

And by this time I had received a good education. 

I was then fully into my seventeenth year. 

I succeeded in getting employment as a cashier; 

Which occupation I kept for three years, when 

I was seized with a feverish restlessness again ; 

And nothing could content rae but to go out west. 

And what money I had saved in mines to invest. 

So, straight from New York to Arizona I went, 

Where working in the mines one year I spent. 

Then through the western states and territories strayed. 

Finally settled in Nevada, where my fortune was made. 

You've heard of my mines and all how I made it, — 

Of that silver mine and the offers I had to trade it. 

I am now twenty-nine; to conclude with, will say 

I'm worth about two million dollars, to-day." 

''Indeed," said the reverend, "you're a fortunate one! 

So the deserving do win in the long run? 

And what though you've suffered and sighed, 

What though happiness providence long denied, 

At last you're blest, and from this to the end. 



1 l^SZOniA PAINE. 

Doubtless you'll have wealth and many a f'rieud." 

"Heavens! how those words on my poor heart grate. 

Gladly with the swarm of friends that wealth does create 

Would I part, for one who would faithful prove. 

Oh, had I but one to bless, — to love. 

Alas ! I am like a fruit tree in a desert, where 

Its fruit and leaves are eaten by the insects of the air, 

Or they fall upon the unyielding sands to rot. 

One kindred soul, one relative, I have not ; 

And without one true one my wealth to share. 

Think you I am happy, though I'm a millionaire? 

Were mv mother living, could I clasp that precious form, 

Had I her to shield from the world's rude storm. 

Could she share with me my wealth, 'twere not vain ; 

But that loved one is sleeping, ne'er to wake again. 

Alas ! I can but go to where her dear form reposes, 

And place upon the mound violets and roses. 

I placed above the sacred spot a stately polished stone. 

To record the name of the form below and spirit flown." 

"Now that reminds me of what Jules Walker 

Said to you last week, — the simple talker ! — 

When speaking of your mother, you know he said — 

'She may be living, how do you know she's dead?' 

'Did I not kiss those icy lips and that pallid face, — 

She felt not my kisses, I met not her embrace. 

How does any body know when any person dies ?' 

Said you to him as tears bedewed your eyes. 

I'm sorry, (continued he,) that I've said what I have. 

And now to all further misunderstanding save, 

I will say what I mean and should have said. 

Instead of asking how you knew she were dead, 

I meant to ask whv or how you know, sir, 



HSZORIA PAINE. t. 

That this woman you love was really your mother?" 

"That's au odd question ; I can only answer it thus — 

Said you, 'how're we to know the mother of us?' 

No, I have it wrong, this I couldn't fairly answer; 

But your question, as you asked, it I can, sir. 

Why or how do I know that this woman I love 

Was my mother? That you're yourself can you prove? 

I know — if there is positive knowing on this earth — 

I know that 'twas she that gave me birth. 

Yes, my own mother. When her eyes met mine 

They were filled with the light of mother-love divine. 

No other hands liave so lovingly caressed; 

And for nearly two years she nursed me at her breast. 

So do not wonder, or ask me again 

'Why or how I know she's my mother' to explain. 

Once, when I was sick not long before she died. 

Night after night she kept vigil by ray side, 

And looks of more than earthly love on me cast, 

And often on my cheeks her tears fell hot and fast. 

Though but five, I remember it as well jis can be. 

None else, whether sick or well, have shed a tear for me.' 

"I'm sure, Mr. Salvini, I'll neyer forget those 

Words till my life draws to its close. 

Yet really why grieve? God called her,— she's gone; 

And whatever He does ought to be rightly done." 

"No, doctor ; could I, I wouldn't call her back again, 

To live longer, suffer more, and then 

At last, after years of suffering and sighs. 

To die and lie where she now lies." 

As in reverence to her he bowed his head ; 

'Twas a second ere either spoke, then he said, — 

"It seems we were created to tread a rugged path. 



laZOHIA PAJSK. 

And if we jjjet the smooth, it awakes His wrath ; 
Or, where there is bliss, 'tis of short duration. 
To see us happy seems to kindle God's indignation. 
He sends living sorrows or death our peace to wreck, 

And thus a damper's put our eartiily bliss to chei^k " 

"Well, well, where's the sun !" interrupted Rev. Ghost. 

"It has disappeared, and 'tis dark almost. 

Excuse me for iuterupting you in your explanation. 

And I'm thankful your story was brought into our conver- 

[satiou ; 
But I don't like your opinions. You certainly mean well. 
Yet I can't agree with you as to being an infidel." 

"Nor I with you as to believing that book wherein" 

"We can't agree. As tis late, I must go in," 

Said Ghost, and left Salvini with a — "good night." 

And soon he arose to go, when Iszoria met his sight. 

She was crying, for the tears she couldn't restrain; 

So the cause of her grief he resolved to ascertain. 

(Leo Salvini in height was about six feet two, 

And such forms as he possessed are very few. 

Broad his shoulders, — well proportioned was he; 

And everybody admired him who did chance to see. 

For, more attractive than his stately form or size. 

Were his large, bhick, lustrous, soul-speaking eyes. 

Dark his complexion, of the Roman cast his nose; 

Black his mustache and hair, — as you'd naturally suppose. 

Great the magnetism his splendid form possessed, 

But greater the noble heart within his breast.) 

"Lady" said he, as seating himself in a chair near by, 

"Excuse this intrusion, buc might I question why 

Or what the cause of your sorrow may be ?" 

"Oh, sir, I was listening to your story," returned she. 



LSZOHIA I'AIXK 



"Indeed, has my story made you feel so bad? 

I'm sorry we've said aught to malce you sad." 

''You needu't be, for such stories I hwe to hear. 

I don't mean I wish people to have troubles to bear, 

But as they do or have, I love to liear them tell 

Of them ; there's uothiug pleases me so well. 

I know that every noble person's had sorrows to endure. 

Nought but suffering makes one noble, I am sure." 

"Very true — or, no, lady, it is different with some; 

Many through troubles or misfortunes desperadoes become. 

At least those who're a little inclined towards evil." 

"True it makes a God of one, of aiiother a devil. 

I love to see the deserving have the luxuries of earth. 

I'm sure I'll never begrudge you all you're worth." 

"To be sure, lady, I always do the best I can. 

Yet I'm far from being a perfect man." 

"Of course it doesn't look well one's self to praise; 

We must leave that for others to do always. 

But, now I've said raore'n I meant to have said. 

I'm so awkward, — I say what I mean instead 

Of- no, that's what I should say, of course; — 

I — the more I say I make it worse. 

But you, sir, must excuse what I say; 

I have such a rude or uncultivated way 

Of speaking that it makes one think that I'm 

Very forward. I've tried to make many a time 

A refined person of myself; but who could succeed 

In making a fine flower of a common weed ? 

Besides being awkward, I'm so odd or queer, 

I can go around and observe all, and hear 

All that's said, entirely unnoticed .by the crowd; 

And so I often call mvself a — cloud. 



USaOHIA Jr'AlSK. 

Dou't 1 compare with a rain cloud ? Yes, 
I'm more like that than auy other I guess; 
That I'm like the rain-clou'l I've often thought, 
That rains and sails around, yet avails to nought.'" 
And then, after uttering a few words more. 
She smiled and drew a sigh, and before 
He said a word, glided into the hotel. 
Leo Salvini 'rose and said to himself, ''\A^ell, well, 
My cloud has disai)peared, my bird has flown, 
And here I in the dark am left alone !" 



III. 



During the few days of Iszoria's stay 

At this hotel, she became acquainted with 

Several ladies and gentlemen, — namely, 

Ruth Ruthvan, Abbie Waterville and Dot Meredith, 

Carrie Emmet, Madge Steele and Aggie Bridell ; 

C. M. Clare wood, Guy Tuggle and Cecil Seacord, 

Leo Salvini, G. Q. Forrest and John Seewell, 

Several elderly persons, and Otto Oxford. 

And, oh, so pleasantly those few days passed away ! 

Out riding she would go almost every day; 

Out over the beautiful winding country roads, 

With these merry-makers — several carriage loads. 

And evenings when they had nothing else to do. 

When there was no entertainment they cared to go to, 

They would amuse themselves with singing, recitations, 

Reading, arguments, or parlor conversations. 

Sometimes their conversation was a logical one; 

Then again it was nonsensical or rife with fun, 



jy.OUIA PAINE. 219 

Or like telling of the — great uucle of Moses, 

Or giving the date of— the war of the roses. 

The Sunday came and went that Iszoria had set 

For her departure, and found her here yet; 

And she decided to stay, whether wrong or right, 

At least a month longer, couae what might. 

A grand dramatic festival, as the days passed. 

Was to take place ; and it would last 

Two weeks. Six of the greatest stars of the day, 

Were each going to take a part in one play. 

They were Booth, Barrett, McCullough, tragedians ; one 

Comedian, J. T. Raymond ; and Mary Anderson, 

And Clara Morris were the actresses. These were 

All eminent artists. They would open with Julius Qesar, 

Folloxved by The Bells, Hamlet, Richard III, King Lear 

And Richelieu. This was their first week's repertoire. 

The second week they were going to dis-unite. 

And each star with their own troupe play one night. 

A few days ere this dramatic festival began, 

Mr. Clare wood suggested a capital plan. 

It was, that the ladies and gentlemen should be 

Paired, or coupled, for the two weeks, poetically. 

Clarewood sighed, "Who'll pair us ? Let's see— Lord !— 

I've got it ! We'll be coupled by poetic Seacord. 

He, a lady for each gent shall choose. 

And we must not one of us dare r^use 

To escort her every evening, the two weeks through, 

To the theatre. I agree to this. What say you ?" 

And 'twas agreed by all that Seacord should 

Choose for them, as suggested by Clarewood. 

So, straightway, young Seacord up rose, 

And a lady for each gentleman chose. 



IS/jOHIA I'AIXE. 

He began: — "For Mr. Seewell, Miss Meredith, 

And Mr Forrest, I couple Miss Bridell with ; 

And Mr. Tuggle with Miss Rutlivan." 

"Good, good ! 

Go on Cecil." Cried C. M. Clarewood. 

Mr. Seacord resumed. "Let rae see, 1 will 

Choose for Mr Oxford, Miss Waterville; 

And for you, Clarewood, Miss Emmet I choose." 

"Oh,— I—" 

"Come remember, you nmst not refuse !' 

"Of course not — oh certainly — that's all right, 

But suppose we put this oif till another night; 
I can't see what you're in such haste for." — 
A shout of laughter for a second or more, 
Like soda-pop when the cork's pulled runs o'er. 
There was ; when silenced, Cecil began again — 
"For my bosom friend Salviui, I choose Miss Paine, 
And for myself Miss Steele. As you'd suppose, 
I select for myself the — lovliest rose." 
And then in merry mirthful tones he i^ried, — 
"You bade me choose, are you satisfied ?" 
"Aye." Was the response, "We are content. 
But suppose the chosen lady doesn't consent?" 
"Why then choose for yourselves, as you should 
And would've done, only by request of Clarewood." 

But I will say, — to make a long story short — 
Each lady was well pleased with her escort; 
When asked, not one of them said — nay. 
So the gentlemen secured season tickets straightway. 



IlSZOlilA PAINK. 221 

IV. 

"To paint that being to a groveling mind, 
Were like portraying pictures to the blind." 
— Campbell. 

And as the season we best love soonest goes, 

So the (h'ainatic festival drew to a close. 

The f'ollowint»; evening the gnests in the parlor sat 

Conversing, talking of this and of that — 

Of the two weeks that had passed so pleasantly ; 

But the subject was changed to "actors," presently. 

Booth, by the majority, was considered better than 

McCul lough or Barrett. Said Tuggle, "That comedian, 

John T., wears the funniest expression I ever saw." 

And all agreed to it, as though his word was law. 

"But Mary Anderson, — I dislike her;" continued he, 

"Because she looks as though she thought that she 

Were just a little too exquisite, too nice. 

And as cold looking as though carved out of ice." 

"Pshaw, 'twas because you saw her in Galatea the Statue. 

She does look like marble or ice in that, true," 

Returned Seacord. "But what of McCul lough ? Pray, 

ShalUwe of him and his sui)port nothing say ? 

Why, Joseph Haworth personates CaH,nus to perfection. 

He leaves, — well, no, there's nothing for critic's correction 

And he's only twenty-four, as I have heard say. 

Never mind, he'll come to the front some day. 

Had I the power I'd bring him there right away." 

"Oh, no, Cecil," exclamed Leo Salvini, "not yet. 

You talk like a school boy ; do you forget 

That if of fame's ladder you set him on the top round, 

He'd surely break his neck should he fall to the ground? 

Too, perhaps he could never regain the name 



WZORIA l^AINK. 



Of an eminent actor or redeem his fallen fame. 

'Twere best to let him do the climbing himself, 

And then when he reaches the — top shelf, 

Or ij he ever gets to the ^o/j at all, 

He'll know how to balance himself so's not to fall. 

As Barrett, our tragedian far renowned, — 

He has climbed fame's ladder round on round, 

And, knowing how to balance himself, will never fall, 

Till time tears down the fame-ladder and all." 

"You're right, Leo ; always in the right are you. 

Yes, always right in all you say or do. 

But friends, all listen now, and I will read 

A poem I wrote yesterday." 

Cried they, "Proceed." 
"But it is my first, and written hurriedly, so let 
It pass uncriticised ; — for I'm no poet, — 
This is the first lines I ever jingled into rhyme, 
And I only wasted a half hour of leisure time — 
I wouldn't read it did I to be a poet pretend ; 
So i)rcpare now to hear with patience to the end. 

THE ACTOR OF THEM ALL. 

Joseph Ha worth's not as good an actor 

As John McCullough, did you say ? 
Why, man, are you deaf, blind, senseless ? — 

Never mind, — some near future day. 
You'll see, as one of the great tragedians 

In the book of dramatic fame. 
Plainly and deservedly written there — 

Joseph Haworth's name. 

John McCullough is a great tragedian, 
But Haworth is the best. 



lazouiA PAiNJi.: 

Yes, he excels McCullough himself", 
And of that troupe all the rest. 

His voice sometimes is soft and low. 
Then like the rolling thunder; 

Loud enough to shake the opera house 
Or split the roof asunder. 

Then as to form and size he's just right ; 

Just fleshy enough, tall, erect. 
None could have a better face for an actor, 

All who've seen him, know I'm correct. 
He makes a most perfect Icilius, — 

The Roman lover noble and brave. 
He represents to perfection, lago, 

That accurst, damnable knave. 

He makes a perfectly perfect Cassius, 

Well, I should say he does ! 
There is no one to excel him in that role, 

And I think there never was; 
Lawrence Barrett is an eminent tragedian, 

He's called the ''world's Cassius^' you know 
But all who've seen Ha worth in that role, 

Know that that is not so. 

Loud the applause when he his poem had read. 
"You were cut out for a poet," several said. 
"Perched on the top round of the ladder of fame 
You'll be some day ; climb on, win a name; 
For if this is the first that you ever wrote, 
That fame is awaiting you it does surely denote." 
"Well, to tell the truth, I have composed before. 
I wrote a little ditty when I had just stepped oe'r 



USZOHIA PAINE. 



The boundary of my tenth into my eleventh year." 
"Read or speak it, — let us your sonnet hear." 
"I havn't the manuscript of it with me, 
But I'll quote it. I named it 

ID LIKE TO BE 

I'd like to be, when I am grown, 
A man with a will and mind of my own ; 
And dare just what I think to say, 
Should the whole world think the other way. 
And, oh, how happy I'd be if I could 
Make all the wicked folks be good. 

I'd like to be the lord of a palace grand, 
With plenty of riches at my command. 
Oh, yes, I'd love to be rich, and yet 
The poor and forsaken I'd never forget. 
I'd like to have a form of manly grace. 
And a good education and handsome face. 
And always light hearted I'd like to be, 
And have all my neighbors as happy 's me. 

"Bravo !" cried the gents, and the ladies seconded it. 

"Think you I am on the height of fame to sit ? 

Ha, ha, what babe could not such a ditty write? 

Nor do I seek or wish to climb fame's dizzy height. 

To win a name I have no wish nor hope, — 

Though many of us might, if we'd give our talents scope." 

"Your poems are good, though I would it were — 
The first, in praise of another ; — excuse me sir, 
Go on Cecil, with your speech." Exclaimed Guy. 
"I've done. Will you please to tell me why, 



IHZOlilA PA INK. 22.! 

Mr. Tuggle, that you dislike young Haworth so?" 
"Oh, Cecil, I'd tell you, but I hardly know, — 
Perhaps 'twas because he did that Cassius personate. 
And if there is any character I do detest, hate, 
It's that one." 

"Of course it's hard to find one to exactly suit us. 
In plays or reality; of the two, Cassius and Brutus, 
Cassius, it seems to nie, is the noblest by far. 
As to models of perfection, neither of them are." 
''Cassius? (7a.%7us the noblest ? You forget. Pray, 
Did not 3Iarc Antony of Brutus say — 
'This was the noblest Roman of them all!' 
Then why do you Cassius the noblest call ?" 
"Because he was ; for truth you shouldn't take it. 
If Antony did say that, the truth it doesn't make it." 
"I'm astonished at you, Cecil, I am indeed ! 
For it seems that any one can see, that can read. 
That Btnitus is the nobler. Oh, had we Shakespeare 
To question, — would his ghost to us appear, 
As Hamlet's father's ghost appeared to Hamlet, — 
That Brutus is the noblest I very positive am ; yet, 
I would have him or his ghost tell you so. 
Come, Shakcs}K'are, from your dwelling above or below!" 
"W'hy call up him?" exclaimed Leo Salvini. "Why, 
Question your own heart, let your conscience reply : 
While we have a heart within our breast, 
Oh, trouble not Shakespeare, let the poor man rest! 
Mr. Tuggle, take no offence at what I say, 
I'm merely arguing this subject that I may 
Prove to you that Cassius's the noblest of the two ; 
For could a man anything more contemptable do, 
Than turn and murder in cool blood his friend 



That loves him, and whom he to love does pretend? 

No, iny friends, nothing, nothing; for what 

Could be done on earth more damnable than that ! 

Poor Cffisar for protection ran to Brutus' side, 

When at seeing him stab his heart burst, — he died. 

And /could better endure a thousand cuts i'romfoes 

Than one from a loved friend whom I suppose 

To be true. When my friends turn traitors, then I 

Want to go; this world is nothing to me when I 

Cannot trust my friends. Cassius was Caesar's enemy, 

Nor made he any pretentions his friend to be; 

And he had some little cause for being his foe, 

So, was more justifiable in conspiring against him; tho' 

Any kind of blood-thirsty work I detest. 

Revenge is foolish, in such cases at least. 

But in a case like — Appius Cladius — where 

He causes Virginius to kill his child, there 

Revenge is necessary, else 'twoidd show, you see, 

That other fiends could do such deeds, yet go free. 

Do you wonder that Csesar's ghost appeared to Brutus? No. 

But none appeared to Cassius, for he was Csesar's foe. 

Then, in the quarrel, so manly is Cassius' part. 

That it shows a spark of nobleness in his heart. 

Because Antony did Brutus the noblest call. 

Doesn't make a truth of it at all ; 

What was Antony, — was he noble, is the query ?" 

"Yes, Leo, I think he was noble, indeed, very." 

"I don't think he was; he was ambitious, true ; 

Yet ambition and nobleness are destinctly two 

Different things." 

"Oh, I should think you'd admire 
Antonv's character, for it seems you never tire 



HSZORIA PAINE. '22 

Of preaching up true, deep, sincere love and pure, 

And there never was a more sincere love I'm sure 

Than Antony's for Cleopatra ; he's my favorite lover !" 

"But not mine. Let me my opinion of him uncover. 

He loved Cleopatra only when in his sight — 

As a beetle bug is attracted by a light. 

He clung to this enchantress and as they say, 

For her bright eyes he threw the world away. 

So enchanted was he by her dazzling beauty, 

What she said he did as 'twere his duty ; 

Her voluptuousness and eyes glowing bright. 

Held him as beetles are allured by the light. 

They sing, buzz, dance and flit around it. 

As if 'twere Heaven and they had found it ! 

When out of his sight he cursed this enchantress, 

For attracting him with her witching lovliness. 

And that is not love. No, no ; indeed, 

I term it, 'smitten,' 'muddled,' or 'mickei-mageed.' 

(This word for such a case is appropriate, very. 

Though I fail to find it in the dictonary.) 

Then, too, I have no respect for any man who 

Loves another woman when he has a wife ; «Cc- two 

Had he; so that makes it still worse. 

He was a great warrior; an ambitious man, of course." — 

"Mr. Salvini," (interrupted Miss Aggie Bridell,) 

"As your opinions please us all so well. 

Tell us what you think of Hamlet, please do." 

"Certainly, Miss Aggie, with pleasure I'll tell you. 

I think — and think I'm right beyond a doubt — 

That Hamlet isn't worth the thinking about. 

Any man that we can hardly tell were he crazy or sane, 

Is'nt worth the trouble what we think to explain. 



! ISXoniA I'AIXE. 

Jiiit — well, J believe my favorite of ail those 

Men we read of and those iiistorical heroes 

Is Sir William Wallace; there never was than 

He, a nobler or a more Godlike man." 

"Excepting him who just spoke," cried Seacord, 

"Our exemplary brother, our earthly Lord !" 

"Who Cecil ? Who do you mean or what ?" 

"I mean what I say, — 1 mean all of that." 

"Do you wish to insult me or otFeud ? 

I should take it that way were you not my friend. 

What I have done I'm sure I don't know, 

To be so esteemed and termed a hero f 

"I know of many, many deeds you've done 

That stand beside your name like a sun; 

And God records every one good deed every one sin^ 

According to the whys or motive 'twas done in. 

He knows all you've done ; the world may not. 

Nor have I of one charitable deed forgot ; 

'Twas done by stealth, not to win the praise of any ; 

If you'd known I knew it you'd thought't one too many. 

'Twas only known, (as you supposed) to you and God. 

I'll tell you how I knew it, lest you'll think it odd. 

We boarded at the Madison hotel, you and I, 

Last winter; and as the holidays drew nigh, 

(The day before Christmas, I believe it was,) 

You seemed worried, I asked you the cause, — 

'Oh nothing that we can better, I nor you.' 

I observed your movements to see wJiat you would do, 

You went down to a theatrical emporium that eve, 

Thought I, — what he's going to do I can't conceive. 

Like a detective I followed you well disguised. 

And presently you were Santa Glaus, I was surprised. 



INZORIA PAINE. 

In half an liour you were landed in suburb-town, 

And into every house the street up and down 

You went. There were thirty or forty, I guess, — 

Or I know there were than thirty no less. 

Then back to the city you were driven. 

And I visited those houses to see what you had given ; 

And learned that those poverty stricken creatures, who 

Were poor and suffering, were made happier by you, 

For you gave twenty-five dollars to each family. 

They asked if I knew you and I told a 1 — ." 

Astonished seemed each party assembled in the })arlor. 

Leo said, "I should have done far more. 

There is a pleasure greater than words can express, 

In ministering to and comforting those in distress ; 

To those who make of life a — something 

Which is infinitely beyond the mere living. 

Especially when we are surrounded by abundance. 

When we are favored by fortune or circumstance, 

It seems to be a duty with the less fortunate to share. 

Yet should I give to every beggar here and there, 

Who asks his supper, a (quarter or a dime, 

I would be a beggar myself in due time ; 

I would be tagged around and begged every day. 

Till they had begged all ray riches away ; 

And they would call me a good clever man. 

So I have coucluded that the better plan. 

If I wish to distribute 'moug the suffering my wealth, 

Is to give it either puhlidy or by stealth.^' 

Said Cecil, "To speak of other generous deeds I meant, 

And will now tell them with your consent. 

You have helped through stealth many in distress. 

And have built two homes for the friendless, 



I JSX(>J,-IA I'AINI-:. 

Ami sL'c that they are k('|)t uj) in oood order. 
You furnished theiu conitortably. Nor were 
Tliey intended to gain you a name; you gave 
Tlieni to the poor tliat they might have 
A eomfortabh' home." 

"I've enjoyed it," continued Salvini, 
"Tlie.se words are over being repeated within me, — 

'Wlun safe with the loved ones 

And elosed is the door, 
Forget not the homeless, 

Kerneniher (iod's poor. 

^Vhen fortunes sweet comfort 
Hiis gladdened your >tore, 
l-'orget not the hungry, 
Remember God s poor.' 

•'That'.s what we should do," ejacidated Seacord. 

"Xo, Cecil, not you — for you cannot afford 

To give ; you havn't more than you need yourself. 

1 mean those who've a surplus to lay 'pon the shelf; 

They should help the poor to comfortably live, 

And the wealthier they are the more they should give 

Let everybody first of their own take care, 

Then the surplus with the unfortunate share. 

If we give to others what we ourselves need, 

We are doing a wicked and not a charitable deed. 

(jive first to your parents, sisters and brothers. 

What they positively (lo not need give to others; 

For you're doing an act that's far from right, 

When you give what you need, like the widow's mite; 

A genuine fool to give it was she. 

And they were miners who could mean enough be 

To accept it." 

And each party present 
(1api)e(l their hands in aj)proval of this sentiment. 
From one subject to another drifted the conversation. 



L'iZOJilA PA IX a: 28 

" Mr. Salviiii, I — really it is beyond my imagination 

Wliy you think of William Wallace so well," 

Said (juy, — " he was a Christian, you an infidel." 

'' What of" that? " returned Salvini, *S)ne can 

Be as good as the other; the belief don\ make the man. 

There is to be an otficer elected — we'll suppose. 

Several running for that office. For which of those 

Will you vote — Republican, Independent or Democrat? 

" It doesn't take me long, sir, to answer that. 

I will vote every time for the Republican." 

"But the way I'll vote is for the best man, — 

And I wish every one would take my advice, 

For 'twould keep many rascals out of office; 

We should not vote for knaves, cowards or thieves. 

We want men in office, true men, not believes.'^ 



" Hore then wc rest; the univeisal cause 
Acts to one end, but acts by various laws. " 

—Pope. 

" Now seraph-winged among the stars we soar. 
Now distant ages like a day explore— 
And judge the act, the actor now no more." 

—liogers. 

" All tlio world's a staKO 

And all the men and women merely plaj'ers. 
They have their exits and their entrances 
Anil one man in his time plays many parts." 

—Shakespeare. 

"Yes, we are all i)layers in God's iinmortal play,' 

Said Iszoria, one evening when they 

Were sitting in the parlor, "and we 

Are each given a j)art, and whatever it be — 

The fool, a saint, cripple, fiend, king or slave — 

We must play it, since the great Manager gave 



; ISXOlilA I'AIXE. 

It. Tlie instant He does we players engage, 

Soon as we're ushered into the world or upon the stage, 

He casts us a part, and we make our debut, 

And to the end play that part through. 

It may be so short that the first we do or say 

Is the last; — a short and easy part to play! 

Then to another a long hard part is cast ; 

We oft dislike it, yet play it to the last. 

Many are cast a part that they are thankful for ; 

So well it suits, they would play it o'er and o'er. 

But pleased or displeased, no diiference does it make ; 

We must play it till our exit from this stage we take." 

'' I do not think so," said a party sitting by, 

"We make ourselves what we are, and why 

Wouldn't God give to each an equal part 

If as you say, we are destined from the start ?" 

" Because all kinds to make the world it takes; 

The more kinds there are the greater play it makes. 

If we made ourselves just what we would, 

There would be no knaves, we'd all be good ; 

We'd have no sickness; we'd all be healthy; 

We'd all of us be very, very wealthy. 

There would be no one to work for another. 

We would all be peaceful as sister and brother. 

We would have no officers — not any police. 

For we would all live in gentle peace; 

We'd each one have a good easy part ; 

There'd be not a sigh, nor a broken heart. 

Nothing to long for — for everything we'd have; 

Nothing to climb for, nothing to crave. 

Not one would ever be called to the tomb ; 

But, oh, what a dreadful scene of gloom ! 



JNZORIA PAINE. 2:« 

Foi- wliut more distressful could us hetiuc, 

Than to be thoroughly, utterly sutisficd! 

No, that would uever do, for should we 

Never be sick, could health ap[)rcciated be? 

Could we appreciate peace, should we ne'er know distress. 

If we knew not woe, could we appreciate happiness? 

No; the way things are is the best way ; 

There are no errors in the Great Author's play. 

All kinds it takes to make the world, or the cast to fill. 

Then there must be all kinds and will : 

There must be the rich, poor, happy and sad; 

There must be the blind, crippled, good and bad. 

All of you agree to this, none will dispute, 

Or if so, which ones doesn't it suit? " 

None disputed the truth of her speech. 

But several declared that it wouldn't do to teacli ; 

For those who to be bad are inclined 

Would say, "To play the villain I was destined,'^ 

And would cheat, steal and murder to suit their pleasure. 

There would be crimes committed beyond measure. 

"Not so," replied Iszoria, "There would be no more 

Than there are at present or have been before — 

Unless the Great Author desired there should be. 

It stands to reason, do you think that He 

Will let us act but the part He does desire ? 

He guides us through all, till from the stage we retire; 

For the Power that gives us life and takes it away 

Can make us play what It wishes us to play : 

He created us, can take us out or leave us in 

The world, and can have it with or without sin ; 

If He's com])osed aught he doesn't want, beyond doubt 

He can take his rubber and rub it out ! 



JSXOR/A I'AIXE. 

We Jiet atraiust H'ts will? The great Audience or Spectator, 

The Supreme Manager, Author and Creator'? 

Ha ! ha ! ha ! It makes me laugh. Oh, my ! 

To think of us deeming ourselves so high ! 

If what we preaeh, or if by any force 

We can make humanity any better or worse, 

There'd be no wicked people on earth to-day ; 

No human would a fellow creature slay. 

For with moral teachings the world's overrun. 

And for thousands of years, since the world begun, 

Lecturers, authors, poets and preachers, 

Have been trying to make us all good creatures! 

To have things our way we may try and try, 

But we can't alter what's destined by the All High. 

To teach others a lesson, 'tween earth and sky we swing 

A murderer. In an hour after another'll do the same thing. 

We imprison a robber, make him hard work do, 

But there are robberies every day the whole year through. 

Thus things will stand as they are and have stood; 

The bad will be bad, the good will be good. 

Let me illustrate this more plainly — 

There is, we'll suppose, a mother and her family. 

She loves them all — all of them, of course — 

And governs them all by the same gentle force ; 

But some do fiends turn out to be, 

While the others from wickedness are free. 

So, or governed by gentleness, the whip or the rod. 

They'll be what they're ordered to be by their God. 

There're some who all kinds of trouble have had, 

Nor all of Earth's fiends couldn't make them bad. 

They can mingle with demon.^ I am sure 

And vet be just as good and pure; 



ISZOlilA PAINE. 2:X 

They're as far above sin as above the world is the sun, 

And nothing ean make tlicni wicked that's said or done. 

You can't make tliem bad ; pure is their lieart, 

For they were ordained to phiy a good part. 

Oh, tin's Heaven and hell yo^\ talk about. 

Where angels fly and demons stalk about. 

These places of reward and punishment you divine 

May seem sweet to your hearts— they're poisonous to mine. 

Oh, that imagined Heaven of which you tell, 

Is as bad,— yes, worse than your predicted hell ; 

Yet that selfish imagined heaven, you say. 

Is to entice us to be good, that we may 

Win a home there. Could we be happy when 

There, knowing that millions of our fellow men 

Were burning in Hades? No ; or who could be, 

A selfish heartless wretch is he ! 

The way you count sins, two thirds of all are sinners. 

And the other third are the 'Heavenly home' winners. 

Your father gone below, in Heaven your mother; 

In Heaven three brothers, in Hades the other. 

Oh, what a sweet, glorious thought is this ! 

And what an encouragement to be good it is; 

1 on, because yon were good, in Heaven sitting, 

Or 'mong magnificence flying and flitting; 

And your relatives— for they didn't act quite so well, 

Groaning and burning in the fierce flames of hell. 

I woi'ld rather burn with them, or their place take, 

Thau reside in that Heaven; how my heart would ache! 

To see them in pain it woidd hurt me more 

Than to burn myself; my tears would drench the floor, 

And on bended knees God I would implore 

To release them. If my pleadings He wouldn't heed. 



i isxouiA I'Aiyj-:. 

I (for 1 couldn't be happy 'less they were freed) 

Would, in spite of all the guards up there. 

Drop down with them, their pain to share. 

Oh, than this Hades and Heaven, grander far 

Is the thought that after death we nothingness are. 

Oh, yes, yes — many times more sweet 

To be merely dust blown about the street! 

But I think (and it seems as clear as daylight) 

That God is just, and whatever is is right. 

And if so, there can be no other way 

Thau that we are players in His Great Play. 

And I think that He, when this play is o'er, 

Will pay us what we merit, nor less nor more. 

Witli each and every actor He will be exact, 

And pay according to the part we have to act." 

"Pray tell us," said they, "for we can't understand. 

What's the pay or reward we are to demand." 

"Why, your pay or reward," continued she," 

Is that, in the next world or play. He 

To each will give a hard or easy part. 

If here bowed down with sorrow was the heart, 

There 'twill be with joy made more light. 

And everything to them will seem more bright. 

If here of happiness the heart was full, 

'Twill be there less happy, every scene more dull. 

He does all right and nothing wrong. 

If our part here was short, 'twill there be long." 

Said they, "Tell us where all these worlds are." 

"I think," she resumed, "that perhaps every star 

Is a world, and that from one to another we 

Are promoted, even as mimic play actors we see; 

Thoy often from the super gradually climb higher, 



ISZOHIA I'AINE. 



Till they get to be star, then ere lou}^ they retire. 
And when we've played our part in every play 
The Great Author's composed, and won our pay, 
Then perhaps we retire from the stage ; 
Nor will the Manager our services re-engage. 
In a wondrous grand home we'll find sweet rest, 
And we'll know then He does all for the best. 
When we've acted our parts and our tasks are done. 
We'll retire to our eternal home, the sun.(?) 
None of our loved ones doomed to burn in hell, 
And what tho' we've suffered, aWs well that ends well. " 



VI. 

"You don't know what rough usage a woman's heart can bear and 

still beat truly V'—Wilkie Collins. 

"Who weds lor love alone may not be wise, 

Who weds without it angels must despise." 

-Mta Wheeler. 

"I've thought and thought, but can not solve it, 

'Tis beyond my reasoning faculties or wit. 

Why society or the pco[)lc will uphold or approve 

Of these marriages where there's not a groat of love. 

Marriage, it seems, should be a saci'ed tie; 

We should be Joined by love, not merely legally. 

Love the tie should be that binds man and wife, 

When they're joined to sail adown the stream of life. 

If to be joined by law, too, they do desire. 

Love the rope should be and law the tier. 

And to step o'er this, or to be married otherwise, — 

To be joined or bound merely by legal ties, — 

It is legalised prostitution, nothing less nor more; 

The woman lives with the man to be provided for, 



>< I.SXOlilA PAISE. 

Au(l for tliat his desires may be satisfied, 

He is willing, and agrees for her to provide. 

Nothing sacred 'l)otit such marriages, howe'er we look at 

[them ; 
She merely sells to him her — as they call it — gem. 
Then lie and she are — so I set them down — the same 
As the patronizer of and the woman of ill-fame. 
Think over it and argue it as we please, 
The verdict is, — those are as bad as these. 
Marriage should be sacred, and the home should be 
What if we were joined by love it would be. 
Oh, there's nothing else that seems sacred in life 
But the home and the loving husband and wife. 
When the sacredness of home we do destroy, 
We've torn from ourselves all there is to enjoy!" 
Thus soliloquized Iszoria, as she sat one night 
In her room, clad in a night robe white ; 
She'd put out the lights and was sitting by a window. 
Enjoying the mountain breeze and rocking to and fro. 
"Yes, the Imnie should be the most sacred thing in life; 
Yet now-a-days it is mostly a place of strife. 
One time at home, the university D. D., 
As we were conversing together one evening, said to me, 
'Oh, it's terrible, terrible;' then drawing a sigh — 
'Where do you expect to go to when you die ?' 
Thus he kept on, trying to prove that he 
Was far above or better than me. 

'Now, doctor of divinity, to you good advice I'll give,' 
Said I, go home and live as you should live. 
Go home to your wife and children, whom you should love. 
You cannot hide a deed or thought from Him above! 
Go be a husband and father faithful and true. 



ISZORIA PAINK. 2f 

And that is all Heaven requires you to do. 
And throw no stones wliile your house's so tusue thin, 
That a pebble lightly thrown would smash it in. 
'You talk like a moralist, young girl, said he, 
'Tell me how it was that here you came to be.' 
'How came I here? Oh, 'twould take too long to tell. 
I was walking on a rugged path, — I fell ; — 
The poet sings it thus : 

"The mystic web of life we weave 

With colors all our own, 
And in the field of destiny we reap 

As we have sown." 

The poet has it wrong, this sentiment isn't true ; 
It may be so with some, but they I think are/ew. 
What had I sown, in my thoughtless childhood hours, 
That the harvest should be thorns and destitute of flowers? 
Nought had I sown but flower-seeds, yet 'twas decreed so 
That out of every flower-seed a bush of thorns should grow. 
Then many never do sow aught but thorn-seeds 
And are wicked in heart and soul and in deeds; 
They perhaps never tasted of earthly strife. 
And they have a smooth path all their life. 

But, pshaw! — now when I come to think of it. 

As here to-night musing on the past I sit, 

I can't but smile to think that I did fret 

About the harvest ; I havn't reapted it even yet. 

But then as I talked with him that eve. 

That I wasn't reaping it none could make me believe. 

As to God's scheme, said I, 'I may be mistaken, quite; 

And who knows who's wrong, who's right? 

I know tui much about God as any one on earth, 

Yet fill I know isn't a farthing worth. 



ISXOh'/A PA /\h' 



Who has the coreet idea uo human knows. 

It may be you or me, these or those. 

But whether players or merely animated dust are we, 

Whether souls live or die when we cease to be, 

(That they live iu bliss we can hope and trust,) 

We are created, and live till we die,we must. 

So whether or not we're recorded, bad, good, better, best, 

Who does the best he can, his conscience well may rest.' 

Then the doctor of divinity drew several deep sighs. 

And pulled his hat way down over his eyes. 

And looked at me and shook his head. 

And then he sarcastimlly smiled and said — 

'AH this that you preach do you really mean, 

Or is it merely intended your guilt to screen ?' 

*I care not,' returned I, 'for your satiric speech. 

My soul soars far above the serpent's reach. 

Now I'll tell you somtehing almost than truth more true. 

We'll suppose God is on that side with you ; 

'Tis beyond all reason or laws of common sense 

That he'd condemn a man for murdering in self defense. 

Though that man's really a murderer, because 'tis 

Agreed that who slays a human a murderer is. 

Yes, he's a murderer; yet at the same time 

His soul's unsoiled as though he'd committed not the crime 

His heart's innocent, although his brother he slew. 

And then there is another murderer who 

With wicked motive slays a fellow creatiu'e. 

He is guilty. I don't pretend to be a teacher ; 

But give this illustration that you may see 

That the self-defence murderer's the same as me. 

Or perhaps I can all this more plainly portray — 

Suppose a man sits down a game of cards to play; 



They're dealt to hi.n,-witli the doaIin<. he's nought to do, 
Else he d deal tlie best to himself, and to you 
He d give the.n as they come ;-you- understand 
lluit It he dealt them he'd liold the best hand. 
As 'tis, he trusts to luck. Then su])pose 
That he is the best player of all those, 
l^ he holds that poor hand Jie cannot win. 
And because he can't has he committed a sin ■> 
He holds that hand-he can't win the game — 
Is he less a good player ? No, only in name ' 
A hundred games might be won by a dunce, 
While the very best player couldn't win once • 
Ao matter liow much he deserves or desires- 
It isn't lack of skill but the cards he recjuires. 
Or suppose two persons start out intendin.^ to reach 
rhe city. They take different roads-good men each 
One road is smooth, with many pleasant sio-hts- 
The other's rough, lea<ls him thro' swamj;;, o'^r heights. 
He falls and besmears with mud his (;lothes 
The other doesn't fall. Which is the better of those- 
He that had the smooth path? No, not at all, 
His path was so smooth that he couldn't full 
The other may be as good a man as ever wa's seen, 
He looks not so well as were his clothes clean- 
But we find 'tis what's within the heart, when' we scan 
And not the looks or name, that makes the man !' ' 
^aid he, 'Oh, at what you're driving I do perceive- 
And there s a little good in you, I do believe - 
And yet, if so, why is it, please explain. 
That you in this place do still remain. 
You might be as good's ever were you re-varnished, 
iiut you 11 keep on till your utmost soul'II be tarnishe<] 



Isy.OlUA J'AINh' 



J do think yon intend to be good,' said lie, 

'And you have a grand oj)inion of yourself, I see.' 

'Oh no/ returned I 'iiot any grander than I should, 

For I want to be, and feel that I am good. 

Yes, I am good, — a better lot I merit ; 

Fate is unkind to me, but pure is my spirit. 

Misfortune's never wanted, yet often does intrude. 

But tho' misfortune's captured me my spirit's unsubdued. 

I'm one of the many that have fiillen in such traps. 

Does it tarnish the soul, our meeting with mishaps ? 

It may some — many spirits it might greatly deform; 

But I protect my soul from ill-fate's storm. 

As a patriot for his country's right and freedom strikes, 

So my soul to shun or crush all evil likes. 

To gain a better path I am ever hoping ; 

My spirit towards rightousness is ever groping. 

Will fate continue my whole life to encumber. 

Darken my days, even mar my peace in slumber ? 

Oh, must ill-fate ever continue to hurt — 

Or all my hopes to withold or subvert ? 

Alas ! when one falls iu its grasp, it smashes 

Hopes and happiness till we're dust or ashes! 

Yes, doctor, I am good ; this fate came unsought ; 

Ere I fell, how to shun 'traps' I was untaught.' 

Then he hinted at something in such a way 

That it said as plain as words conld say, 

That he who [)raises himself is a fool. 

And that I was no exception to the rule. 

'Oh, I hate that style of slurring, or screening 

What you wish understood ; I catch the meaning. 

But why not be aboveboard and say right out, 

That vou think, and think vou'ro right bevond doubt, 



ISZORIA PAINK. 2« 

Tliat he who praifies himself is a fuol, 

And I would tell you, your wits to school, 

For it is mostly the fool, if not always. 

Who will stand before you and liimself dispraise. 

He is a fool, isn't it plain to he seen. 

Who thinks he is good and calls himself mean ? 

If you know you're handsome and call yourself homely, 

You're simple; say, — yes, I think I'm comely. 

Yes, 'tis ever a fool who himself condemns. 

And tries to sully what he knows are pure gems. 

But if your conscience is ill at rest, 

Own that you've a wicked heart in your breast ; 

Be aboveboard and honest in all you do, 

And own your defects and your perfections, too. 

Though the bad really need say nothing, it is clear. 

If for truth we take the words of Shakespeare, — 

" The evU that men do lives alter them, 
The iiood is oft interred with tlielr bones," 

Then they should just keep as silent as stones. 

I am good; I couldn't be bad if I tried. 

To be as good as the best myself I pride. 

Were I a moralist, I would j)reach to the crowd, 

To make themselves so good that of themselves they're 

W^e can't be too good, too proud or too great, [|)roud. 

We can't our minds too highly cultivate. 

We can't build too high, e'en though we must 

Soon fall to earth and return to dust. 

Even though we are no more than the lamp or light, 

While we're lit we can't shine any too bright. 

We can't make ourselves too good,. great or grand. 

Even though we're nothingness at God's command ! 

No, even if such is our doom or fate, 

We can be ha})py thinking we're grand and great ! 



J.SZOJi/.\ I'Al.XK. 



\']\ru tlioiiiih wc'i'o no more tluui f^on-crs or (/ras.s; 

Oi- the /ir/h(, — .some can be electric, others gai<, — 

And wliiie lighted can't too bri^litly ilhiminate the dark, 

Even thoutjh soon tnrned off is our vital spark. 

Onr beautiinl liereafter we can iniaji;ine or divine, 

And be hapjn' in our own brightness while we shine!' 

Tlie doctor of divinity (h-ew anotlier h)nt)- sigh, 

And stared at nie, as he asked me why 

I didn't get married, or if I ever was. 

'No, sir, I, as yot, have not married, because 

I've never met tlie man I wouhl have, you see, 

Nor have I seen the man who'd really die for me.'' 

And he then ran his hands through his hair, 

And still kept on me that curious stare. 

Thus he sat for five minutes or more or about, 

As though some puzzle he was trying to work out; 

And when he found he couldn't solve the mystery, 

His mind wandered back to the reality. 

And resuming his former countenance, said he, 'Girl, 

'Tis a shame! Von were intended for -A pearl.'' 

To that speech I gave a se<[uel that cut like a knife. 

Would I be more a pearl were 1 jioiir inife'.' 

No, I think I am now more a pearl, I do, 

Than were I the wife of such a man as you. 

Where's the .^acredness in being true to or linke»l with 

An untrue and pcu'haps drunkard — Brown or Smith, 

Would I be liny purer, being the wife of such a fellow? 

Xo. But had I a husband like — say — noble Of.hello, — 

A loving husband, noble, true and kind. 

Then I'd be as pure as any pi-arl you'd find. 

There is where the purity and saercdness lies, — 

/// being true to irhoni we^re hound by afection\'i tiei^. 



ISZORIA PAINK. ^.i 

Happy I'd be, were I the wife of such a husband; 

Tho' like Desdemona, I were murdered by his hand. 

True, I do abhor this kind of life; 

Yet would as soon live it as to be the wife 

Of a husband who would hckle or faithless prove. 

Oh, to be tied to one I couldn't respect or love! ' 

***** 
''X\\ well, why think of all this? Those days are fled. 
'Tis wasting time to think of all those things we said; 
Yet memory oft will waken what otherwise were dead. 
Well, I guess I'd better retire, for 'tis late. 
And what a foolish girl lam! At this rate, 
I soon won't have a penny left— boarding at this hotel— 
But I will stay this month out. Oh, well, 
What's the odds?— I'll enjoy myself while I may. 
Then there's that ball, and I promised him I'd stay; 
But— but now surely I'm acting a foolish part. 
To loiter here till I completely lose my heart; 
But, why, let it go, for I can hold it not, 
If that I must love him 'tis written in my lot. 
I love him? What if the love should mutual be,— 
What if he should fall in love with me? 
No, no; I must leave,— yet can't! I've tried and tried ; 
'Tseems useless as trying to change the course of the tide. 
Of coursa, 'twould be well to leave to-morrow morning; 
And something seems to say or whisper warning 
That each day I tarry but adds to the cnp 
Of sorrow I'm brewing in after days to sup. 
But what of it,— what though I overrun the measure? 
There's one consolation; I've found a pleasure 
In brewing it. I've drained many sorrow-cups di 
And if I stay here and lose my heart, why. 



Irv. 



IS/JJUIA PAINE. 

I will drink what I brew and not complain, 

Though it he a full and bitter cup to drain. 

All kinds of sorrows or griefs I have known ; 

Have watched my bright air-castles tumble down ; 

Unthanked, I've helped others when in trouble ; 

Had confidence in friendship that proved but a bubble; 

Have seen spring up the coarsest, ugliest weeds, 

In the self-same spot where I planted flower seeds ; 

I've hoped, but what I hoj^ed for never came ; 

For othe^H sins I have borne the blame ; 

I cast my bread on water, but it's never returned ; 

Ever witheld was that for which I yearned — 

So I'll enjoy the present, nor of past nor future thuik ; 

And what sorrow I brew will unshrinkingly drink. 

To go with him to the grand ball I'll stay, 

And try to be as iiappy as a queeu of May ; 

I'll let myself out full length of Pleasure's rope; 

For why should I grieve and for better days hope?" 



VII. 



"() heaven, may there be as inucli of happiness in store for him 
As there lias been of misery endured by me." 

— Lucrctia Borgia. 

"Oh, since the world began or had its birth, 
I wonder if there ever lived 'pon this earth, 
A nobler man. A greater or grander mind 
Was there ever bestowed upon mankind? 
Lived there, or lives there at present time, 
A loftier spirit or a soul more sublime ? 
A heart more true, a more majestic form. 
Was there ever created to be eaten by the worm ? 



ISZOIHA PAINE. 247 

Oh, who could love God or deem him just, 

If such he has created, bxit to return to dust f — 

If we are but as the terrestial things we view, 

Doomed to return to earth from which they grew ; 

If we bloom no more when to earth we fall, 

Oh, why should (iod have fashioned us at all, 

With so much to suffer and so little to enjoy? 

Oh, how wicked 'twere to create but to destroy ! 

Why should He of dunt such grand things mould or cast. 

If they're but to return to that same dud at lastf 

Or if of earth or dust He would create 

Something that's very beautiful, grand or great, 

Why could He not create us without the feeliriff powers, 

To grow and to live as the trees or flowers? 

This nohlii Uqht-of -I i(/hts, who's light's now burning dim — 

Gracious! I almost shudder while looking at him. 

To think that when life leaves such a human as this, 

Perhaps the sublime heart and majestic form mere dust is ! 

This loved one is now sleeping, perhaps never to wake ; 

Ere morn this noble frame the life- light may forsake — 

Oh, no, no; I — Oh, God, please, please do spare 

This noble one ; oh, listen, — hear my prayer ! 

You who made the sun, earth, streams, trees and flowers, 

Unseen, incomprehensible. Power of ad powers, 

With you there's surely no such thing as 'can't/ 

All lies in your power; so my prayer please grant. 

Whatever we are, — whether players, dreamers or clay, — 

Oh, take not this exemplary one from us away ! 

Leave him till he's lived to an old age, 

Then call him to nothingness or to play on another stage. 

If there is awaiting us a heavenly world of bliss. 

Oh, yet. let him longer t^irry with us in this! 



ISZORIA PAIXE. 



Or if the form and mind but to the earth returns, 

If we are but a light that brightly or dindy burns, 

Leave this brightest light lit, let it longer shine; 

Hear, heed my prayer, Creator, (xod or Power Divine !" 

Tszoria rose from where she was kneeling. 

And into her heart there crept a peaceful feeling, 

As though confident God would answer her prayer; 

And she sat and calmly dozed in a reclining chair. 

Twelve days by Salvini's bed-side had sat Iszoria Paine, 

Where, with brain fever, unconscious he had lain. 

While enjoying the grand ball other young folk were, 

She watched o'er him with a mother's tender care. 

Morn, noon, and night found her at his bed-side. 

She fanned his fevered brow and cool cloths applied. 

Three more days passed, (making fifteen in all 

Since he'd been sick,) when there came a tall, 

Fine looking, well dressed man, Leo Salvini to see. 

And who claimed his warm friend to be. 

He sat and talked with Iszoria for ten minutes or more, 

Tiien he rose and meditatingly paced the floor ; 

Finally paused at the end of a table that stood between 

Two windows, so a front view of him could be seen 

In the mirror hanging above it; and when 

He'd opened several medicine bottles, he then 

After smelling and tasting the contents, threw 

A white powder into a bottle or two. 

Iszoria saw him, although bis back was towards her. 

And resolved to ascertain what the powders were. 

He seemed to be angry for that she asked ; 

His face fiushed, that was in false beard masked. 

"So you saw me," sort of jestingly said he, 

"Indeed I didn't intend that vou should .see, 



ISZORIA I'AINE. 

For women are so curious, they always will doubt; 
But I assure you 'twas but a powder I got of Dr. Stout, 
To put in his medicine, to— cool his fevered brain ; 
And hope my friend will soon be well again. 
Many such cases this powder has entirely cured. 
Now, as I have you of its value assured, 
I'll bid you 'good day' and take my departure." 
"First, sir, that it's not poison I must be sure. 
FIl prepai-e a dose,— if not poisoned you'll take it ; 
Here— or no, I'll first thoroughly shake it." 
She prepared the dose ; he dashed it to the floor. 
And as he reached for his hat, she locked the door. 

Her dark blue eyes looked black with excitement. 

Could her image have been sketched at this moment, 

'Twould've made a charming picture ; as there 

She stepped before him with a tragical air, 

Clad in a loose, black, trailing robe or gown. 

O'er which fell a shower of ringlets of goldish brown ; 

And those were the only ornaments she wore 

And what siren or queen would wish for more? 

But he pushed her backward, and the key seized ; 

Ran out— left her to do or think what she pleased. 

And where he went or who he was she didn't know. 

That evening she showed the medicine to Dr. Low. 

Said he, " In these bottles there's enough strychnine 

To kill six men, perhaps eight or nine." 

For her watchfulness great praise she won. 

And seven days after Salvini recovered his reason. 

VI 11. 

Twelve days passed ; twelve days of joy and rest ; 
When Nat McPhetridge, a sport from the West, ' 



) ISZORIA I'AINi:. 

Arrivod at the hotel. He came from the city 

Where Iszoria had been living. " Hello, pretty," 

Said he, when he saw her in the parlor alone. 

Ere two days he made her ])ast life to all known. 

Everything he tattled that he could get hold of; 

All he knew about her, and more too, he told of. 

Slow to believe what he said were some few. 

While others ere he'd scarcely said it, believed it was true. 

Thusu damj)er was put to Iszoria's joy or peace. 



IX. 

" I hold he is best learned and most wise. 
Who best and most can love and sympathize." 

—Ella Wheeler. 

" Then gently scan your brother man, 

Still gentler sister woman ; 
Though they may gang a kennin' wrang. 

To step aside is human. 
One point must still be greatly dark, 

The moving why tliey do it, 
And just as lamely can ye mark 

How liir, perhaps, they rue it." 

— liuras. 

One day Nat called sevei-al of the gentlemen together. 

"Now boys, I'm not going to talk of the weather; 

I have a subject more important than that. 

'Bout that woman — I tell you just what's what. 

She's a vile thing! and I really do believe 

She's trying round your friend a web to weave. 

Oh, there's no telling what she is u}) to, 

For there's nothing too mean for such a woman to do. 

You must draw him from the webs that girl so vile 

Is tangling him in with her witching smile." 

" What! You mean Salvini?" cried Seacord, 

" No, we will none of us speak a word 

'Gainst her to him — he is man enough, sir. 

To know whose com|)aiiy to shun or prefer ! 



IISZORIA PAIXE. 25 

She has woven webs around him ? 1 doubt 

Not that she has, and made tliem whip-cord stout ; 

But 1 thiidv she's not phiying the spider at all. 

She could never cause him into ruin to fall. 

You'll have to go yourself to draw him from the snare, 

And I would advise you, young man, to beware ! " 

" Why, is he so dangerous? " 

" No, only when insult is given 
He'll tolerate it no more than the God of Heaven. 
Don't say before him what you've said to this group. 
For he so detests a tattler, sneak or snoop .'" 
" Perhaps you think what I've said isn't true?" 
*' Oh, no ; but is she any worse than me or you, 
Admitting she did live there ? No, as to me, 
I count myself good, but no better than she. 
Women are the purer part of humanity, any way; 
And even when they do sin or go astray — 
Even though with their utmost heart they sin — 
They niav forgiveness or pardon from heaven win ; 
For they are the weaker. Men are strong, 
And consequently when they sin or do wrong 
They're not so pardonable; a stronger will and mind 
They're supposed to have — the Jdngs of mankind! 
Yet, the man condemns the woman — she's very wrong 
To do what he upholds himself in doing right along!" 



^' He j)oisoned your medicine? I never dreamt that he 
Would do the like. Are you sure 'twas him, Salvini?'' 
Enquired Seacord, "Are you sure 'twas Dale Cordes,- 
Have you positive proof, or do you merely guess f " 



I IHZORIA I'AISK. 

" Tlu^ latter way, Cecil; for I know of none other than 

He who is my foe. I've offeiuled no other man." 

" How or why, may I ask, did you him offend?" 

"Oh, he sometime ago asked me to lend 

Him four or five thousand — the spendthrift. 

He might as well have asked it as a gift ; 

And I told him plainly I would not lend it, 

For I could find a more useful way to spend it. 

I'd sooner lent, even given it, had he been poor. 

But he'd just stepped out of a gambling house door. 

Where seven thousand he'd lost that night; 

And did I do any more than was right 

Not to lend it? He'd' ve spent it all gambling and drinking, 

So I care not what he thought or may be thinking. 

He is of wealthy parents the pampered, treasured gem, 

And when his purse's empty let him go to them ! 

That's how it was; so it seems clear to me. 

That the medicine-poisoner was no other than he." 

" Well, well, so then perhaps 'twas Dale." 

''I think so. When we met last night he turned pale, 

Acted uneasy, gazed at the floor for a minute's space. 

Then raised his head, and avoided looking me in the face." 

"Is that so? Oh, then 'twas him, I'm quite sure, 

And you'd best keep an eye on him in the future !" 



XI. 

"Tlic past a blmik, tlu' future black, 

With sliinpses ol a dreary track. 

Like lightning on the desert palli 

When midniglit storms are mustering wrath." 

—Byron. 

'Twas three days later — the afternoon of the twenty-third 

Of August, when Leo Salvini heard 

'i'hat Tszoria was making iiroparation to go; 




I wish I'd never come, or weeks ago had gone ; 
Hut there's no use grieving— what's done is done. 
—Page 253. 



ISZORIA PAIXE. 

Aud called at her room to ascertain were it 80. 

"Yes, my trunks are all packed," said Iszoria, 

"And 1 am g;oin<r to leave to-day. 

I am very sorry that I've tarried this long. 

And feel that 1 have been doing wrong. 

I wish I'd never come, or weeks ago had gone, 

But there's no use grieving; what's done is clone." 

Her face grew so pale 'twavS almost ice-blue ; 

She looked as though she'd turned into a statue. 

On her countenance there settled a look of dcsi)air, 

And for several minutes thus she stood there. 

They looked at each other, but neither could speak. 

'Twas some moments ere either the silence could break. 

So sad.' Yet the tears came not to her eyes ; 

Her heart was so full she could draw no sighs, — 

Like the full rain-cloud that silently moves about 

Till so full it bursts and the rain falls out, 

Or like a too full cistern or well. 

At last it overflowed and the tears freely fell. 

And as the tears down her pale cheeks strayed, 

Round her quivering mouth a pathetic smile played. 

At last that death-like silence was broken 

And a few words b}- each were spoken. 

After sighing, Iszoria said, "I thought that I 

Had drained the heart's grief fountain dry — 

I even but last week made a vow, 

But, alas, weak woman, I've broken it now ! 

I resolved, with blinded eyes and stopped ears. 

To shun grief and to shed no more tears. 

I said to my heart, with deej) earnestness : 

I'll make you hereafter proof 'gainst distress; 

With a resolve strong as penitentiary walls, 



I INZORIA PAIXK. 

I'll defend you, my heart, when sorrow calls; 

You shall never again be the victim of grief ; 

When he comes I'll protect you from the thief! 

Too long you've been that monster's victim, 

But no more shall be a slave to him ! 

And on bended knees I did declare 

I had bid my last farewell to care; 

And my heart seemed armed witli a defiance-sword 

To defy entrance to grief from that time forward. 

Even as Horatius, who in the narrow pathway 

Held thrice thirty thousand foes at bay. 

So my heart seemed armed 'gainst consuming grief-flames, 

And in terms as bold as James Fitz James\ 

When ^'his back against a rock he bore, 

And firmly placed one foot before,^' 

And, with Herculean grip, held sword in hand, 

Fearlessly challenging Clan Alpine's warrior band, 

I defied aught to make me grieve or pine. 

Light and free should be this heart of mine. 

Of this grieving I had seen the folly, 

Now I'd bid my last adieu to melancholy. 

Alas ! — not two weeks since then have passed — 

My heart's full of sorrow, my tears falling fast ; 

So numb is my heart, and grieved and sore, 

That I would fall to sleep to wake no more ! 

How gladly at this moment I'd meet stern Death, 

Should he come to blow out my light with his breath ; 

I would not now from his grim presence shrink, 

For 'twould be sweeter to die than live to drink 

The overfull bowl of bitter sorrow, 

That I've brewed for myself to drink to-morrow. 

And could I die now all that 'twould save — 



ISZORIA PAINE. 

No troubles can jijrieve human dust in a grave. 

Yes, but last week I vowed never again to kneel 

To grief; I'd meet it with a heart of steel ! 

But there's no use for us to declare what 

We will do, or what we will not; 

For over our feelings we have no control. 

We feel, or act, as He orders, who governs the ichole. 

Yes, oh, last week I was so brave that I 

Could f ice the sternest trouble without a sigh ! 

So I resolved here long's I could to remain 

And let joy while't could in my heart hold reign. 

Will I blast my future peace? What if I do? 

My heart's proof 'gainst all the trouble I brew 

Thought 1 ; so, it seemed I couldn't get away ; 

'Twas * 1 guess I'll just a little longer stay.' 

So I've stayed and stayed when I should've gone home, 

Till at last the bitter blast has come 

To tear me away from where I would be ; 

To blow every comfort away from me. 

If I plant a hope, when it begins to grow 

There comes a blast and lays it low, 

And tears up the roots where it did stand 

And blows till it leaves but bare bleak sand !" 

Again a mist began her sight to blur. 

" But you have been very kind to me, sir," 

She said, as she closed her beclouded eyes 

And tried to supress the rising sighs. 

" The talk's true and I am going to leave — 

Yet all this you seem to disbelieve; 

But it's true. Listen to my story, and then 

We must part never to meet again; 

Or, perhaps you wouldn't listen to my history?" 



LSXOJilA PA INK. 



"You may tell rae in a mouth or a year from to-day,' 

And Salvini slowly raised his manly head, 

As with deep pathos those words he said. 

"Why, sir, do you think in a mouth or a year 

From to-day that I will still be here? " 

"Well, my Iszoria, perhaps it would be 

A weight off your mind, so you may tell me; 

1 will gladly hear all you wish to say, 

But first let us be seated on the sofa." 

So saving, thev seated themselves. 



XII. 

"As sunshine falls upon a flower 
That storms }iave beaten to the ground, 

Her heart began to feel the power 
Of his (loop love and faith profound " 

— Ann H. Stephens. 

"From this hour the pledge is given, 

Krom this hour my soul Is thine; 
f'ome vvliat will from earth or heaven, 

Weal or woe, thy fate be mine." 

— T/ioma.i Moore. 

"Oh, how often do we wear a smile 

When aching is our heart the while; 

Often laugh and sing from morn till night. 

When sorrow presses with heavy might; 

And try to find some sweet relief 

While wading through the sea of grief. 

The surging tide seems not half so strong, 

If we merrily laugh and sing as we sail along, 

And it will seemingly bring us sooner to the shore, 

Though the heart be dreadfully sad and sore. 

Thus my heart's been full many, many times, 

And I've soothed it by laughing or singing cheery rhymes. 

Had I not struggled those heartaches to stem, 



ISZORFA PAINE. 257 

Had I not tlius tried to soothe or heal tliein, 

But in silence nursed them day by day, 

They'd luive cankered and eaten my heart away. 

But, I will begin of my past life to tell. 

I've sntfered, and others have suffered as well. 

I will not boast that I have endured more 

Than any human being ever has before, 

For I know not what all they've had to endure ; 

But I've iiad my heaped-up share, I'm sure. 

Each and all humans have their troubles and cares; 

I perhaps might deem mine heavier than theirs. 

That mine wen; light compared with theirs, others might 

17 , . [boast, 

±or each one thinks his own burden weighs most. 

Well, that my parents were wealthy I've told you hereto- 

rfore 
For 'twouldn't look well, as a rich wardrobe I wore. 

To say they were poor ; so there's one falsehood. 
They were never wealthy. Mother's loving and good. 

Father was a laboring man, and no mate for her 

He was not a bad man, but a poor manager ; 
And than barely enough to wear and eat- 
Merely shelter, clothes, and bread and meat- 
He aspired to no more, 'twas all he desired. 
But ma with enthusiastic feelings was fired. 
He was the cannl-boat, the horse was mother. 
Or, no, — she pulled one way and he the other. 
And so there is always that discord, strife, 
When a mismated pair are joined for life. 
Yet, worse than being mismated it does ever prove, 
When on either side there's not a mite of love. 
They pull this way and that way; and then 
There generally falls a curse on their children, 



hSZOIilA FA INE 



For about as tliey've a family of good size, 

They separate ; they break their legal ties ; 

The father ruus off alone — for as every one knows, 

The children will follow mother wherever she goes ! 

Then she is left to support her children all. 

And on that family does ruin generally fall — 

For I think there's not a woman in all this land 

Can support a large family with the earnings of her hand. 

She may be e'er so willing the hardest work to do, 

But the wages she receives won't carry her family through. 

Women used to live by washing, in the days before 

The Chinese came. They can do so no more. 

Were I a man I'd never rest till they were put to route. 

They've no right in this country when they take our money 

Of course, this is a free land, for every one a home; [out. 

Who makes and spends his money here, has a right to come; 

But they send back to China about all they make. 

And the very bread from our poor folks' mouths they take! 

For they'll work for mere nothing, those heathen Chinese. 

Till they're gone my heart will never be at ease! 

Our countrymen could and should get them away. 

If they'd offer their passage to China to pay, 

And for them the vessels, and so on, provide — 

Or, if they wish in our country to reside, 

Make them become citizens, and every one 

Who sends money to China, as he has done, 

Just drag him out of his opium den, 

And kill him, — not put him in the '■pen,^ 

To eat off of us, and to do the work that 

Our own fellow creatures could be working at — " 

" That's what I say," interrupted Salvini, 

"Those are the feelings that're ])lanted in me. 



ISZORIA PAINE. 259 

And yet aru't we a little too hard on the 

Poor Celestial, or opiuiii-blaud (Ihinee? 

They are not to blame ; they were brought here, 

And to kill the poor things'd be rather severe. 

The speculators that brought them are the ones who 

Should'be killed, if there's any killing to do. 

I've no ill will towards John, the opium-blaud. 

But we shouldn't allow any more of them to land. 

Let these that're here, if they wish to, stay ; 

But if Chinese get a foothold in our country, 

They are liable to, if they take a notion, 

Push us oif into the Atlantic Ocean." 

"But if our Congressmen were of spirit and worth. 

And our President, Senators, and so forth. 

They'd settle the Chinese question immediately, 

And we'd find 'twould improve our country greatly. 

Or without their say-so, we should 

Settle this Chinese question, and could. 

If Socialists would more attention to this subject pay, 

We'd soon have them citizens, or driven away. 

When we've done away with monopolists, and these 

Slippery, 'ratee eatee^ heathen Chinese, 

Our c'Hinlry will be prosperous and clean." 

"Yes, there'd be few such things to be seen 

As tramps, robbers, murderers and so on. 

And everyth.ing would more smoothly go on. 

For there's hardly such a thing as an utter shirk; 

Who can get good wages will generally work. 

But there're many creatures, nor yet to blame, 

Who won't work for money enough to keep soul and frame 

Together; while others, or at least some few. 

Have more than with which they know what to do. 



WZORJA PAIXE. 

But when they can get good wages, instead 

Of committing crime, they'll work for their bread. 

Like car wheels, when well-gi'eased they smoothly I'un ; 

When scantily, they grow rusty, and harm will be done 

If we try to run them with such little grease. 

For they say : 'They must think we're real geese 

To run their cars about to suit their will 

With such little grease; perhaps to-morrow less still !'" 

" Yes, when people can get reasonable wages, 

Each one in some kind of labor engages. 

Of bread they can have their well-buttered slice, 

And everything then goes on smoothly and nice. 

I said a woman with her family couldn't live 

On the small wages that to women they give — 

That's a mistake; she can manage and save 

And thus barely keep themselves from the grave. 

If willing to work hard and live that way, 

They can keep themselves alive many a day. 

They can live if they'll cringe and crawl about, 

Till they work and starve their poor lives out, 

If they are willing (so that they may barely exist) 

On such as Beecher would provide to subsist. 

If that man, because his bread's well buttered, 

Did or has ever really such words uttered. 

That 'any laboring man who is contented not 

With cold water and bread should be shot,' 

He should have been shot the instant he said it. 

To put an end to him and his lead wit ! 

But when I said any woman in this land 

Couldn't support her family with the earnings of her hand, 

I meant those who to something better and higher 

Than bread and water and a hovel do aspire 



ISZOHIA PAIXA'. 

Who are more enthiisia.stic than the (!attle we drive, 

Tliat merely wish to live that they may bo alive! 

So that mother and children, when bereft 

Of hnsband and father, and penniless left, 

Do jrenerally fall to ruin, if not always. 

And from that on they meet with dispraise. 

Oh, how dreadful to be kept down like a slave 

'Tis for those whom God a high spirit gave ; 

They can't crawl and cringe like whipped curs 

And pretend to be the rich folks worshippers; 

For they are as sublime and noble, or far 

Nobler than some they must knuckle to are. 

No, though they chanced to be to gauut poverty born, 

They won't swallow their snubs and shots of scorn. 

There never was nor is in past or present time, 

Aught more touching than the poverty-born sublime; 

They are filled with a restlessness or discontent, 

And on climbing above their mind is ever bent. 

So they start out full speed and never, stop 

Till they fall or reach the very top 

Of the desired height; 'tis sometimes popif/ar name, 

And often it is wealth or everlasting fame — 

No matter, — there's a restlessness within that stings. 

And thus they start out with tlieir imaginary wings. 

Powerful enough to carry them to the skies. 

And if the air is favorable they generally rise. 

Yet, often, though they struggle hard, they fall ; 

For those heights can't be won l»y them all. 

And when they do thus fall to the ground, — 

Fail to reach that for which they were bound, — 

They often disgusted and discouraged do grow 

Aiid end their life, or begin vile deeds to .sow. 



IS/A)ni.\ I'AJSE. 

And, }xn-lmps, they'll keep siukint^ lower, till, if men, 

They end on tlie seaiibid, or in the 'pen.^ 

At any rate, whether they fall or the heij^ht wii), 

These sublimes are filled with a ret^tlessuess within. 

And will never rest or be satisfied 

Till to soar far above they have tried. 

They, like the animal class of people, cannot 

Contented live and die in the one same spot; 

But like the lit sky rocket, rise they must. 

Or in the attempt fall and singe the dust! 

And if they /a//, when to rise they attempt, 

They are looked upon with scorn or contem|)t ; 

But if when they start they do successfully rise, 

With approval they're looked 'pon by all eyes. 

Yes, those poverty-born sublimes, who climb to glory. 

Are lauded or praised in every history or story — 

Such as Lincoln and GarKeld, who tried and rose. 

And hundreds who've soared as high as those 

And tliere are many who are climbing; day by day. 

And the lustre they leave behind will never fade away. 

For from poverty they'll climb, stair by staii, 

Step by step, till at last tluy're up where 

With the praise and plaudits of all they'll meet. 

And naught but words of praise will greet. 

Oh, yes, there's our beloved poet. Burns; 

To that bright star above us eveiy eye turns ! 

And how many great inventors from poverty have sprung. 

And now stand the successful climbers among. 

Yet manv with as great a heart and brain 

Have started out and fallen, ne'er to rise again. 

Oh, had there never been a poverty-born sublime, 

What would our world've been at the present time? 



jsyjuiiA I'Aiyi-:. 2f« 

Well, so tluit iiiutliLT and (■hildroii, when l)C'rt'f't 

Of husband and father, and penniless left, 

They first try one way and then another 

This longino- or restlessness (»f spirit to smother. 

lint 'tis only natural — so at least we'll suppose — 

The niDic they trim it down the stronger it grows; 

Ami urgetl by this longing, or their burning ])ride. 

Their imaginary wings they spread wide. 

And Hy out. Where to? No matter, — they fly away 

Anywhere, rather than in this place to stay. 

This soaring spirit oft leads them from right, 

And over their future there falls a blight ! 

Well, I'll go back, or with my story begin anew — 

1 have said already more than I meant to. 

My parents were, as I before stated, 

Married without lovo and miserably mismated. 

They lived in the place where they were wed, 

Several years, then the notion entered their head 

To move, and neither of them could rest 

Till they had packed uj> and moved out West. 

They then had a family of three or four — 

That many m(»re'u tbey could well j)rovide for. 

W^eil, so they moved; but ere they went. 

Ma's j)arents gave them several thousands, which they 

For a miserable, unyielding, worthless farm ; [spent 

Of course, when they bought it, they didn't mean harm ; 

Yet when they |)urchased that, they then 

Harmed themselves and tlieir children. 

'Twas worthless; 'twouldn't give back the seed they sowed. 

In it they invested their ;'.ll, and several hundred owed. 

And when it came near the time to pay 

The balance due or lose it all, thev — 



lS'/.V}ilA I'AIXK. 



Well, they diiln't know what to do. 

So nia said to pa, ' Now you 

Go to towu and get a job, and I'll, 

With one 'hand.' put in the crops the while.' 

So pa got a job of work in towu, 

And ma worked till she wassail bi'oken down. 

She plowed thirty or forty acres, planted and sowed 

The crops, and when ripe, the grain she mowed. 

She worked every day from morn till night, 

And all we had to cat was a bite 

Of corn bread and some burnt corn coffee. 

We children used to get the meals, but she 

And one to help did the other work all ; 

(We couldn't help much for we were small) 

And after all their trying and working so hard, 

They lost farm and all for their reward! 

All they'd made since and all they had at first. 

Gone, — and they concluded they were born to be cursed. 

All destitute and penniless they were then, 

But they moved to town and went to work again, 

And lived there several years. We were sent 

To school, where we very willingly went. 

Well, 'twere useless to relate, word by word, 

Just what all during those years occurred; 

(But we lived as any poverty-stricken family, 

Though more unhappy than the majority were we,) 

And when we were pretty well grown up, why. 

Father left us to provide for ourselves, or die. 

We were indebted, — and contrived night and day 

How to provide for ourselves and the debts pay, — 

But couldn't pay them; and the food we had, 

Tf offei-ed to a do^r would've made him mad. 



iszoiiiA PAryE. 

One (lay I went up street and s;iw and smelt 

The luscious fruits. 1 can't describe how I felt; 

But on the way home I hid in the ell 

Of an empty house ; and for a spell 

I sat there, nor could cry nor sigh, 

For overcome with a unmbness was I. 

But ere lonj^ the tears to my eyes came, 

And in my heart there was kindled a Hame, 

As if it had suddenly on fire cjiujrht. 

And there for two hours I cried and thou<>:ht. 

Like the huntrry wolves in search of meat, 

I was ravenous for somethino- to eat! — 

But had no money with which to buy that. 

So I made an oath as there I sat. 

I was too proud to beg, to steal too honest ; 

I couldn't teach anything should I try my best, 

For I hadn't education enough to do so ; 

Nor strong enough for hard work, as you know. 

So, as everytiiing was as it thus was, I 

Vowed it shouldn't longer be so, because 1 

Had starved long enough — was tired of toiling 

For a crust of bread while luxuries lay spoiling! 

So from this time forward I did declare 

I would have enough to eat and wear ; 

And yet not steal it, nor harm anyone. 

Thought I, if I harm myself, no harm is done, 

For no one loves me. Why should I be true 

When I have no one to be true to ? 

By my fall I will sever no sacred ties, 

For no one cares whether I fall or rise. 

(I would've lived in poverty forever and ever, 

Rather than sacred ties to sever.) 



i ISZOJiJA I' A INK. 

No, thorc is no one lor nie to grieve 
When this for a diflPereut lite 1 leave. 
So I arose and went home, and — well, 
'Twas bnt a few days later when I — -fell. 
And I wonld advise others, ere they start out. 
To ponder well their intended route, 
Think fifteen times what their future will be. 
Not start with but once thinking like me. 
But I imagined I could see great things 
Awaiting me, and not thorns and stings. 
So, without further thinking, I made a hinge. 
Only in still more misery to phmge. 
Yet, except myself, by my fall 
I have harmed no one, none at all. 
And yet it has often been brought up to me, 
That I have cheated or wronged society ; 
For that I was intended society to adorn 
And not by society to be looked 'pou with scorn. 
This has been told me time and time again, 
But I was scorned or shunned by society then. 
For I was into poverty given birth 
And was never estimated at my real worth. 
So I deem I didn't owe society aught ; 
And perhaps society likewise owed me naught. 
Or, if they were indebted to me, I'm afraid 
They never would their debt have paid. 
Had I lived like a saint — so rigidly nice, 
And done their work for a less-than-nothing price- 
When I died, after working for them so hard, 
They'd have given me, for my reward, 
A pine coffin and an unbleached muslin shroud ; 
For this much to anv dead human is allowed, 



ISZORIA PAINE. 

And so to ine this much they'd Iiave ^ivcii — 

Then dumped into :in express wagon and driven 

To tlie potter's field, and thrown into a grave, 

As though an animal or some fiendish knave. 

And they would (for their hearts are so large) 

Have given me all this free of charge ! 

And after there for nine or ten years I'd lain, 

Perhaps my grave would be dug open again, 

(When all flattened down were my mound, 

A nd they were growing a little scarce of ground,) 

For another poor victim that nobody owns 

Would be thrown in on my mouldering bones. 

Of course, when our mind has passed away, 

We don't know where our bodies lay; 

And the reasonable way is not to care about 

Our life-forsaken body or its whereabout. 

And we would as soon, taking a logical view, 

Lie in the potter's field ; and yet, 'tis true, 

I have such a horror of anything of the kind 

That I'd be burned to ashes and thrown to the wind 

Rather than, when excinguished is my life-flame, 

That it should lay in the potter's field — my frame. 

Heaven knows, when I die I want a respected bed. 

Not a towering monument above my head, 

But a stone engraven with my name, and so on, 

And a mound that flowers and grass may grow on; 

So that when the living are passing me by, 

They won't tread on me as 1 helpless lie! 

I don't wish to have tears drojjped on my stone. 

All I wish or ask is to be let alone ; 

For could I see them trampling on my bed. 

It seems that 1 would rise, though dead, 



i ISZOniA PAIXK. 

And trv myself and last lioine to defend, 

Thouiili to crush me hundreds would u hand lend !" 

And Iszofia's voice trembled and began to fail — 

Her eyes looked on vacancy, her face grew pale, 

And she leant her head 'gainst Salvini's breast 

Ivike a tired teething child falls to rest. 

Or like one seized with an apoplectic stroke. 

But ere long from that death-like calm she woke, 

And when she re-began to speak. 

Her voice was tremulous and weak. 

"Why, to think, it almost exasj)erates me. 

Oi these barren women who mothers would be. 

They sigh and fret because they can not bring 

More mortals into a world of suffering. 

Oh, oh ; my poor mother, many a night and morn. 

Has sighed and wept because that we were born ; 

For she loves us, and her heart it cuts. 

When in our paths there are hateful ruts. 

And from childhood up to the present time. 

Many, many rough hillocks we've had to climb! 

Well, I guess I've told all I need to tell. 

You understand now how or why 1 jell,, 

And perhaps may comprehend partly or all 

Of how much I've suffered .since that fall. 

I have been asked time and time again, 

If I liked that life, or if it caused me pain, 

^And I have acted loell my part, 

And made my answer belie my heart.'' 

For had I told them all, they'd have drawn a sigh, 

Given their advice, yet left me there to die. 

One might say, ' if to you 'twas such strife. 

Why didn't you at once quit that life?'* 



JSZORIA PAISE. 2 

So ere I'm where I'll feel nor grief nor pleasnre, 

I thought I would the passing present treasure. 

And so I came East to see what I could, 

But intended (o return soon; and would — 

Only I wasn't able to resist the temptation to 

Stay here and enjoy myself a month or two. 

But now all my hopes of further joy arc past 

And another dark shadow o'er me is cast. 

Now, Mr. Salvini, you've heard my long and unpleasant 

Story all through up to the present. 

Yet, you've heard but the outlines ; for no 

Other than me can the reality of it know. 

Yes, Mr. Salvini, I have soiled my name. 

And for it no one but mj/self is to blame. 

Don't for heaven's sake think that I ever would 

Have been betrayed ; for no man ever could 

Have gotten the opportunity to betray me. 

Though 1 loved him and a king were he, 

And should coax with many a honeyed word — 

Use all the soft-soap his tongue might aiford ! 

No, I could never have been an Ophelia; 

She might've been as pure of heart as Parthcnia, 

But it seems they must be very simple or green 

To be betrayed as many girls have been. 

Of course, men ought to be killed, when they 

An unwary, or simple young girl betray ; 

But then were I in that girl's place, I'd 

Keep such simpleness a secret till I died! 

And those unfaithful married women I despise, 

Who pretend to be true, yet break sacred ties ; 

And those, whether a single girl or a wife, 

Who leave plentiful homes to live that life. 



I ISZOIUA I'AIXIC. 

But as I l)cfoi-e said, 1 fell luvausc 

Tliere alroacly around me grim darLiiess was; 

And I didn't know but that 1 might, 

Should I make a wild leap, find the light." 

" r understand, you need tell me no more," 

Said Salvini, with earnestness like the look he wore. 

"And I see you take a front view of" them all ; 

There's as much difference between those that fa//. 

When we scan them, or (u)nsider lohy they fell, 

As there is between serene heaven and dire hell, 

Or saints and sinners, or black and white. 

Yet, when the worst of these turn toward> ri'/lit. 

We should encourage and help them all we can ; 

(As we help to reform ufallcm man.) 

Though they are sunk as low as one can sink. 

Though they've even been given to accursed drink — 

If or wJien 'gainst such she turns her back, 

(Though she may seem sunk in indelible black) 

We should heartily try to make her whiter. 

And hold a light to righteousness to light her! 

Who pushes her back when she tries to rise. 

It seems God must all of those despise ; 

They should fall, and have the light from them shut, 

To pay for not helping her out of the rut. 

' She's too far sunk, there's no good in her,' 

Some'd say, 'and we won't help such a sinner.' 

But these very ones, who so harshly condemn her, 

(For none know but what they are and were) 

May fall as low, or lower even, 

Thau she whom they says's past being forgiven. 

We know not but that 'twill turn that way, 

For we know but the yesterday and tlie to-day, 



IUZO liJ A I'A ISE. 

And the best to-(l;iy may be the irov.sf to-morrow! 

Thrrc's oftc-ii such turnings in this worhl of sbn-ow. 

So, when we see one in a swamp of" (]ist>Taee, 

Jx't us inia,<i:ine ourselves in that same place, 

And think what wo would wish, were we 

8uul< in the mire liko the one we s^e. 

And if we Uiok within our hearts .thus, 

The victim will be aided by each of us. 

We will eagerly help them out of the mire, 

When to rise from tiie swamp they do desire. 

But, Is/oria, 'tis growing late, and darkness is 

About here, so let us talk no more of this. 

You say }<)u've fallen, and society won't forgive. 

But here's one that vnll, and while I live 

You can rely on me a.s a friend sincere, — 

Yes, more than merely your friend, dear, 

For I love you ; but need I to .say .so? 

For that I love you, you already know. 

I have never said that I loved you, true, 

Yet you know that I long have and do. 

Though spoken never a word of love have we. 

You know I love you, as I know you love me; 

And wliy try to bring it about one way and another, 

When we already know we love each other? 

It seems so foolish to hint this way and that. 

When we both know what we are di-iving at. 

Such nxight have .seemed well in olden times. 

Or may sound well in stories or rhymes, 

Or suit those who go by charts to-iiay ; 

But let us throw all that 'driving-at' away — 

Not keep what we know behind a screen 

And be a month coming at what we mean. 



IHZOniA }>AIXE. 



So we two will Ik; joined for life, 

For those who love should be man and wife." 

" No, no; that I'd woven a web totang;le you in. 

The world would say, and dragged you to ruin. 

You'd be sorry. Your love for me might die out, 

For there'd be many lagos coming about. 

That I were unfaithful to make you believe, 

And say that I married you but to deceive." 

" No; what you'd say, or your actions, would 

Stand against all talk ; for I could 

By your actions, and guilty or innocent look in your eyes, 

Tell were they telling me the truth or lies. 

Oh, with all else 1 would rather part, 

Than have you torn away from my heart ! 

I love you, and should I care for what 

People think or say of you who know you not? 

They see the defects, they know not the cause. 

I know you have fallen and know why it was. 

I love you — you are pure in my sight, for 

You love goodness; you're fallen, but such life abhor. 

And so, should all folk that are yet born 

Point at you a finger of scorn, 

I'd love you still. I'd rather be a genuine dog than 

Such a man as — say — Hardress Cregan; 

Ashamed to visit his wife in daylight was he. 

Yes, a bur-weed or a stone I'd rather be, 

Without the least particle of sense or feeling. 

Than to be thus cringing, knuckling and kneeling. 

I know that you love me and that I love you, 

And so man and wife shall be we two " 



ISZORIA PAINE. 273 

XIII. 

"Old Winter was gone 

In his weakness back to the mountains hoar; 
And Spring came down 

From the planet that hovers upon tke shore '" 
—Shelley. 

They were already bound by ties the most strong, 

Yet were linked with legal chains ere long. 

They were privately married the following Monday, 

And went into the city at a hotel to stiiy 

Until they could decide which to do — 

Buy a ready made residence or build one new. 

They left those talking acquaintances at the resort hotel, 

And found they could live without them as well. 

And not even Cecil Seacord knew as to where 

They went, or that they married were, 

Till they had been joined one week or more. 

But soon the talk was surging as before. 

They'd forgive kini and call it but a mistake, 

Would he his newly made wife forsake. 

And all the ties between them break. 

But she? She'd sunken too deep into shame, 

She had too ileeply stained her name. 

They said, and sunk as she was she must live. 

For they could never /tcr past forgive. 

Like the meanest brutes when for food they seek, 

They darn't tackle the strong, but love to torture the weak, 

Or like the Patagouians fall afoul of and eat 

The weakest of their tribe when wanting meat, 

Were they. They would willingly forgive him all. 

Nor afterwards ever accuse him of his fall. 

They said that he could now be forgiven 

And rise on the wings of repentance to heaven. 

That they'd forgive him was repeated o'er and o'er again, 



Jf he'd leave her. Did he leave her theD ? 
No ; he was one such heathenism far above, 
And nobly clung to the object of his love ! 

***** * ** 

The first of September for the Western city they started, 

Where her folks lived. Three months they'd been parted, 

And now the welcome, joyous time had come 

When she would rejoin the dear ones at home. 

She left them when her heart was full of pain, 

Now joy in her heart was holding reign ; 

And seemingly not a tint of what had been, survived. 

Well, in due time, at her home they arrived, 

And with happiness re-united were they. 

A joyous re-union was there that day. 

And later, her mother, sisters and brothers were 

Given of theii great wealth a bountiful share. 

She, when fortune favored, did not forsake them, 

But made them happy as she could make them. 

That fall, the ground they selected and bought — 

A well-located square. That winter they thought 

And decided on the plan of their residence ; 

And contractors and workmen were ready to commence 

Working on it as soon as Spring 

Came to reign instead of the Winter-king. 

At last Spring came, the benumbed things to charm. 

Or breathe life into them with her breath mildly warm. 

(lentle princess Spring, or the young Summer-queen, 

Decked the trees and fields with tender green. 

And the brooks and rivers, which during king ^frost's reign 

Had not murmured, fearlessly began their purling again ; 

And everything seemed welcoming the gentle comer. 

The lovely princess Spring, or young queen Summer. 



ISZORIA PAINE. 



And the first of May the workmen began 

To erect their residence from a well drawn plan. 

XIV. 

" For he who blesses most is blest 
And Ciod and man shall own his worth, 

Who tolls to leave at his beiiuest 
An added beauty to the earth." 

- Whitlier. 

" Their home knew but affection's looks and speech— 
A little heaven above dissension's reach. " 

—CampbfU. 

And two years from the time it was begun 
Their magnificent residence was done. 
The fulfillment of the plan satisfactory proved, 
And they to their elegant new home moved ; 
And everything was set to order in a short while. 
'Twas furnished throughout in the grandest style. 
And when all was done that they intended to have, 
A grand opening, or reception, they gave ; 
And a great sensation among the elite it created. 
The house from basement to attic was illuminated, 
And a dazzling bright electric light was there 
At each of the four corners of the square, 
And one on the house's highest peak there was 
That twinkled in the darkness as a bright star does. 
And in the gardens were .seen most charming sights, 
yix fountains surrounded by cupids holding lights, 
Threw high their water with sportive glee. 
The whole square a paradise was to see. 
Four electric lights and several of gas. 
Threw a dazzling brightness on the emerald grass; 
And from the trees there glanced many a light 
To make this scene more bewilderingly bright. 



ISZOUIA I'Aiy. 



Cypresses and statues the most artistic aiul tiue, 

And ornaments of stone, wood and iron of rare design, 

Together with flowers, were set here and there, 

Oh, more enchanting than Eden was Salvini square! 

Then inside — the magnificence one couldn't portray 

To one who wasn't there. There in grand array 

Were sculptures, flowers, furniture, and the walls 

Were hung with splendid paintings, and in the halls 

On either side, were mirrors from floor to ceiling. 

And alabaster cherubs holding wax candles, and kneeling 

In the centre, an image of William Wallace as in life, 

And above, suspending from the ceiling, his angel wife. 

Wallace's image was of Bisque, with his armor on. 

Partly kneeling, head bowed, as thinking of his Marion. 

The angel was of wax and full life size, 

With lovely long black hair and heavenly eyes. 

And her large white wings were widely outspread. 

On her face was the expression as though she said, 

*Come to your Marion and your heavenly home,' 

And one hand was beckoning him to come. 

She was clad in a dainty robe of pale blue. 

And these images were most artistic, true; 

At these and the fountains, one could gaze and gaze. 

There were three fountains throwing sparkling sprays 

In the large hall ; in the first or the main, 

Was a statue of Lear, bareing his breast to the rain, 

Clad in a gown as he wears on the heath. 

And his head crowned with a wild fantastic wreath. 

The second was Hamlet, bowed as under a shower of grief, 

The third, Paul and Virginia, holding o'er them a banana 

And these fountains and several images in the hall, [leaf. 

Won the admiration of the (udtured beholders all. 



iszoiiiA j'Aiyj-:. 2 

And the cliaiKU-licrs with cut <;las.s and lights abhuc, 

And odorous flowers, all helped to bewilder and daze; 

And ehinies of the sweetest music could you hear, 

Whether in doors or out, it i2:reeteil the ear 

Siti'iior Vitellozzo furnished music for those inside; 

Vitello/zo, and his orchestra of renown far and wide. 

Outside three bands filled with music the air, 

To make more delightful the reception at Salvini square. 

This reception was one of the grandest events 

Of the season, and pleasautest of entertainments. 

There was nothing lacking, and, as you may guess, 

It was in every sense a grand success. 

All the elite of the city were there, 

The society gentlemen and their ladies fair ; 

Yes, all the society people were anxious to come 

And look through their magnificent home. 

But after the reception, on high shelves, 

Or from the Salvinis they kept themselves ; 

And like a pump with a very large spout. 

When the handle's worked the water gushes out. 

They needed no more pumping or water to prime, 

P^or they gushed a steady stream forth from this time. 

And overflowed the trough; they were talking always. 

With them this strange marriage met with no jiraise. 

But though they were shut from society, 

All the public entertainments to them were free. 

The theatres, parks, fairs, picnics and the ball. 

Expositions, excursions, the cars, steamboats, and all 

The beauties of Nature, mountains and lakes; 

For none of these societv from them takes. 

The city and woods were as free to them as any, 

A.nd the homes like this were certainly not manv. 



Isy.OlilA I'AIXE. 

All of lui folks lived witli them there. 

They all loved each other and happy were; 

Oil, more than haj)})y were they, only think — 

All those loved ones together and no missing link! 

Who conld estimate of such happiness the true worth? 

Their home was almost a heaven on earth ! 

For all it lacked was some children now. 

Before their marrjage they had made a vow 

Never to have a child ; never to bring 

Another human into a world of suifering! 

They were far too humane to create 

Innocent mortals to be looked upon with hate ; 

Tormented and twitted for what their parents had been, 

Long ere they the daylight had seen. 

To live till their life-flame were gone out, 

And be cursed for that they knew nothing about. 

No, that shouldn't be; so they had sworn 

That to them a child should never be born. 

But without children the home's bliss it almost destroys, 

So they adopted seven; four girls and three boys. 

They were already brought into creation; 

Abandoned orphans growing up to starvation. 

Poor little cherubs, as though they were nothing worth, 

Thrown on the world the moment they're given birth. 

To be abused and even denied a right in heaven,. 

Of these helpless nobody's children they adopted seven, 

To bring up, educate and guard with parental care, 

And their lovely home and their wealth to share. 

They were happy doing what they knew was right 

And they let the world think what it might! 

With })arental care they watched each tender bloom. 

And pointed out the moral path, as traveling to the tomb. 



iszoRiA PAINE. en 

So those flowers grew there, side by side, 

And as time passed they were more firmly tied. 

Their now-parents with neither of them could part ; 

As their own flesh they were knitted to tiieir heart. 

They dearly loved those sweet opening flowers ; 

They'd watched o'er those buds and nourished witli 

[showers 
Of" tender care, and (hiy by day their sweet perfume 
Had penetrated their hearts and found broader room. 
For their pastime they tended those flowers, while 
Many wealthy folks were following up the style ; 
While many of the fantastic society belles, 
Or, perhaps, all of those dashing swells, 
Poor little-minded people, poor shallow-pated noodles, 
Were wasting their time and affections on pug poodles. 
They had done a great charitable deed, but then. 
They wern't content with just caring for those children. 
So Iszoria said to Leo, " I've summed and reckoned it ; 
What to do with our surplus, and you must second it. 
Of course, we, though if of our money every cent 
Among the suffering and poor were spent. 
We couldn't relieve their wants; for 
Though we gave our a//, they'd still need more. 
All the capitalists must unite to pull them from the rut; 
■No one, not even Vanderbilt, could do that alone. But, 
Though monopolists, in spite of socialists, hold their sway, 
And hoard money from the poor to their dying day. 
We can find a useful way to spend our surplus. 
And while pleasing others it will greatly please us! 
Monopolists may think they've a right to all they've got; 
They may all think that vvay, but we do not, 
And that we've more than our share I feel, — 



I ISZORIA I'AINE. 

Altlu)iit>;li we've suttered much and tleserve a j»;reat deal, 

Yet I know that we've nioi'e than our sh;ire. 

And as 'twere useless to look to the poor's welfare, 

For that we ahne couldn't better their fate, 

Let's spend it in the interest of our city and state. 

Let others spend their surplus as they choose, 

(Jur city and state our assistance won't refuse ; 

And while helping our city and state, we are sure 

We are helping to a certain degree our poor. 

For when our city's made beautiful, then will 

Be more people here, and more work still. 

Or, at any rate, they'll have all that work t(j do 

Of making it beautiful, and they'll enjoy it, too. 

First, let's see that the hospitals, asylums, 

And so on, are provided with needful sums 

To make comfortable all who to them comes ; 

Then for extra j)olice pay so muck per year 

To help to keep our city of criminals clear ; 

Then, so we won't choke every time there comes a gust, 

Let's pay for more sprinklers to keep down the dust. 

And our public [)arks let's more beautiful make 

For our own and for everybody's sake. 

And our public buildings that are projected, 

Let's try and get them to be straightway erected ; 

And plant trees, our city's beauty to complete. 

Before every poor person's house on every street. 

And all the rich folk try to compel 

To set their own trees or their j>roperty sell 

To those who are willing to do their duty, 

And help to add to our city's beauty. 

And the same way about public side-walks — 

Sell out every rich person who is contrary or balks. 



LSZOlilA FAIJ^E. 281 

Or if we couldn't such laws euforce, 

(For they wouldu't heed our say-so, of course,) 

We could have trees aud walks before each poor person's 

[home, 
And how beautiful would be our city in years to come." 
And all this, he of course, seconded, 
And praised her duly for all she'd said. 
And they at once began to see about 
How nearly her plans they could carry out. 
And in four or ere five years away glide, 
Their city is of the West the glory and pride. 
And she for all this is lauded and praised ; 
A lasting monument to her memory is raised. 
Long after she's returned to dust, under her earthen cover. 
This monument will stand like a star above her. 



XV. 

They one winter evening, when raging was the storm, 
Were sitting iu the drawing room cosy and warm. 
"Suppose we read something," Cecil Seacord said, 
Aud opening an encyclopedia of poetry, this jwem he read 

"Gamaria is a dainty steed, 

Strong, l)lack, and ot noble breed ; 

Full of firciuid full of hone, 

With all his line of fathers known ; 

Fine his nose, his nostrils thin. 

But hlowii aljioad by the pride within; 

His mane is like a river flowing, 

And his eyes like embers glowing 

In the darkness of the night. 

And his pace as swift as light. 

Look,— how round his straining throat 

Grace aud shifting beauty float. 

Sinewy strength is in his reins, 

And the red blood gallops through his veins. 

Richer, redder, never ran 

Through the boasting heart of man !" 

He paused and looking up said, " Isn't that sublime? 
An elegant horse, I've thought many a time, 



! ISZOU/A I'AiyiC. 

Is the haudsomest thing in all creation ; 

There's nothing more attracts uiy admiration, 

Unless, indeed, it is a handsome, stately man. 

These are the grandest of everything in His [)lan ; 

And the prettiest of all," he glanced at Is/oria, then 

Continued, " are flowers, birds, jewelry and women. 

A stern winter, a lofty oak, a s])lendid horse. 

And a majestic man are alike ; of course 

Not exactly alike, yet well they harmonize, 

Like women, flowers, birds, summer and azure skies." 

After each had said something to what he'd said, 

He then the remainder of the poem read. 

The next poem he opened to was "The Children," 

By Charles Dickens. He began reading, and when 

He'd read the third verse, he read it over again : 

"(Jli, my heart grows weak as a woman's, 

And the fountains of (eeling wIU flow, 
When I think of the paths, steep and thorny, 

Where the feet of the dear ones must go. 
Of tlie mountains of sin hanging o'er tliern, 

Of the tempest of fate blowing wild— 
Oh, there's nothing on earth half so holy 

As the innocent heart of a child." 

*'0h, beautiful, beautifuV' snid he, " I'm sure 
There's naught than children more holy and pure." 
'* And yet," exclaimed Leo Salvini, " I dare say 
That I think that adults are as holy as they. 
Aren't they the children, though tempest beaten and worn, 
The same that were so innocent when born? 
Then, if the ways of the world they are in. 
Compels each one, when grown older, to sin. 
Are not the old care-worn, storm-beaten sinners. 
As pure or as good as the young beginners? 
If, after treading the thorny path, they become defiled, 
Thev're as good as when treading the flowery path of a 

[child. 



ISZORIA PAIA'E. 



Fur they have met with crudes uot met with by them, 

And, though their lustre's faded, they're as pure a gem. 

Their lustre when mixed with corrosives will fade ; 

They will be like these, when like these they wade 

Through the dismal swamp of life and years, 

Begrimed and bowed down with grief and tears. 

The butterfly's the caterpillar, the caterpillar's the butterfly 

And babes make adults, so children are you and I. 

So 1 look not on our now begrimed brothers with scorn. 

Any more than on those in their life's early morn. 

Oh, the children they are heavenly, holy and pure 

And I love the sweet creatures dearly, to be sure ; 

Yet, my heart holds for them no purer token. 

Than for the old folks soiled, bruised and broken. 

Your way of thinking I know my speech provokes, 

But I can't praise the children more than the old folks." 



XVI. 

" Heroes dare to live 
When aU that makes life sweet is snatched away." 

—Ella W?ic€ler. 

Seven years had passed since by wedlock they 

Were joined. Seven years of bliss had passed away. 

Yet their path had been not entirely free of strife. 

They had some grief, for sorrow's the salt of life. 

As terrestial things require just so much sunshine and 

[shower. 
So AVe must have just so much sweet and sour. 
We can hardly live without some of each ; 'tis thus — 
We must have some, but too much strangles us. 
Of sugar and of salt, same as other stutf. 
To be healthy we must have just enough. 
And 'tis the same way about joy or pain, 



1 ISXORIA PATXK. 

As 'tis about suj^ar and salt, 'tis quite plain. 

Of course, we like joy best, or sugar we call't, 

But can better go without sugar than salt. 

We can live without sugar, though such we crave, 

But salt is something we must have. 

We can wait for our bliss until to-morrow. 

But can't live well without ennobling sorrow. 

We better relish too much salt on our meat 

Than if with sugar 'twere made sick'ning sweet. 

Sorrow'll make almost saints of us in due time. 

For there's something about it so exaltingly sublime. 

And as salt is really the sweetest thing on earth, 

So deep sorrow is sweeter than light mirth. 

So they seven years of happiness had passed ; 

For just enough sorrow into their measure was cast — 

Just the quantity that it does take 

Real joy or happiness on earth to make. 

One day, Leo came, when Iszoria at eventide 

Was sitting in a summer-house, and knelt by her side. 

His face was pale, a touchingly sad expression it wore; 

She'd never seen it wear a more pathetic look before. 

His hand trembled as he stroked her head and cheeks. 

And she, half frightened, to know what's happened seeks. 

But he with gentle earnestness, said, '*Iszoria, tell 

Me truly, darling, are you feeling well?" 

'' Why ask ? " 

" Oh, you seem to be drooping," he said, 
And folded her in his arms and kissed her forehead. 
As tears fell, the first in seven years he'd shed. 
He continued, ''And darling, I dreamt that you were dead." 
Her head drooped; about his neck her arms she twined. 
And ere she spoke, several thoughts crossed her mind. 



ISZOlilA I'AiyE. 285 

She thought, "These hands that fondle with loving caresses 

[now, 
Would with still deeper love stroke my marble brow; 
This heart that loves me dearly, while withiu his view, 
This heart that beats with love for me so true, 
Would still more tenderly love me, were I 
Torn from his side in the grave to lie; 
Yes, this loving heart would give me still broader room, 
Were I before him called to the awaiting tomb." 
And as if from light slumber and dreams siic'd woke, 
She raised her head, and after sighing, spoke — 
" And suppose that your dream should come true?" 
"Oh, God ! Iszoria, I couldn't live to bury you." 
"Hush, Leo — if I'm called, you must be happy, and can ; 
Remember you're not a woman, but a strong man. 
Yes, 

' If I sliouhl die before you, love, 

I pray you do not keep 
*\'<)ur woe beyond the first few tears 

The world will \\o\g you weep, 
lUit say : " I make her heaven less, 
I'.y mourning ttius in dreariness.' 

God may not call mc to my eternal home, 

From your side, for several years to come. 

And again, your dream ere long may come true; 

And if it does, noble husband, I beg of you. 

Live, and be as haj)py, while floating with life's tide. 

As if I were living and close at your side." 

XA^IL 

/ 

" Already I feel, in a sort of still, sweet awe, 
The great main ourrent of all that I am, beginning to draw and draw. 
Into perfect peace." 

—Oiven Meredith. 

Six months have passed since Leo sat at Iszoria's side, 
Telling her his dream at the hour of eventide, 



ISZOIilA PAfNK: 

And he's sittinjj- beside her this eveuiug as she lies 

'Pon the bed from which she ne'er again will rise. 

Consumption has paled her cheeks and emaciated her frame 

And dwindled her life-light to a dim, dim flame 

That she must go in a few days she's aware. 

And as pale, enfeebled and faded she lies there, 

8he is lovlier than love's twilight dreams ; 

Her every glance and word like something nnworldly 

And now her eyes that were with tears (iini, [seems. 

Are cleared, and she looks up at him. 

His hand lovingly on her pale brow he lays, 

And she to him, with feeble voice, says — 

"I would tell you something ; so, dear, lean down. 

I'll tell you now, for to-morrow I may be gone ; 

I wonder why I've waited to tell you till to-day, 

But now while I think of it, and may, 

I'll tell it. 'Tis nothing much, but then, 

I've intended to tell you it, time and time again. 

I say ity but there's three of which I'll tell ; 

One was before, and two after I fell. 

The first, 'the cornfield scene' I'll call. 

The others, "prayer behind the door' — 's[)ider on the wall.' 

I'll begin with the 'cornfield,' as it came before 

The "spider on the wall" and " prayer behind the door." 

One day, (this to my folks many times I've told,) 

While on the farm, and I was nine years old, 

Out to husk corn into the cornfield I went. 

And was seized with the blues oi a discontent; 

^And I sat and thought and thought and thought. 

And wondered why I was ever into life brought. 

They'd said God was my Creator but I couldn't see 

^^^hv or what for he had created me. 



ISyAJHIA J'AJXE 



'Twas cireaiy for nio on a farm, hu^Uiiiji- foni, 

And I began crying for that I was born. 

And there settled darkness around nie ; and, oh, 

There was something seemed to say, *' Show, show !" 

Then passed full a dozen scenes befoi-e my sight, 

Like panoramic pictures reflected by magic light. 

And dreary bleak scenes were the first few ; 

Then gradually brighter ones came to my view, 

And the loveliest scene of all was the lad. 

When that was shown, away the darkness passed. 

The vision was gone, nor guessed I what't meant, 

But it left behind bluer blues and deeper discontent. 

Then, one morning, I, not long after my fall, 

Laid awake in bed and watched the spider on th(! wall ; 

It came crawling up the wall and sent a squirmish feeling 

Over me; then, presently, it had reached the ceiling. 

There it came towards my bed crawling. 

Weaving its web as it went, and {sfrer falling 

Sometimes half-way, then clear to the fli;or, 

And it must have fallen twenty times or more. 

Ere its well woven web it i-eachcd. And when 

It had been there half an hour or so, I then 

Got out of bed and killed it with mv sho(! 

And something SL'cmed to s.iy 'that npide,' compares wirh 

[//0(t.' 

After many strug«rlcs and falls it iinaliy gained the 
Much sought for web, was just where it icoaltl be, 
And when a short time its web it had enjoved, 
*Twas killed, — yes, the poor thing was destroyed. 
And so about that spider I never forgot. 
And often, often to /V'.s, have compared ;//// lot; 
And would never (piitc give uji the idea that 



I.SZOIilA PA INK. 



Some day I would the longed for statiou arrive at. 

And then 'twas about two years afterward 

That I prayed a prayer that was heard. 

And there ne'er was a more earnest prayer before 

Than the one I prayed behind my bedroom door. 

'Twas no prayer that I had read or learned, 

But my soul asked Him to grant that for which it yearned. 

I did not kneel with clasped hands and head bowed, 

And with solemn voice ask my prayer aloud ; 

No — but my soul a deeper and plainer prayer asked ! 

I was tired of the life ; ray heart was overtasked. 

And I sat where I'd swooned away behind my door 

And with earnestness did the Almighty's aid implore. 

My soul said : 'Supreme Power in heaven, earth or air. 

Listen — pay heed and answer my earnest prayer ! 

I'm but a thing of dust, so far's I can understand; 

Yet, since I am something fashioned by your hand, 

Fashioned by your hand that makes and destroys, 

Though I were the least among your toys. 

You've given me these feelings, now 'tis no more than just 

That you should help me — yet crush me if you must; 

For I am weak, and growing weaker every hour. 

And know I'm but a plaything, entirely in your power. 

But if you are a God — just, kind and true — 

You'll answer all sensible prayers that are asked of you. 

And so I ask you, the Creator of the lohole, 

With the full strength of my heart and soul. 

To take me now, put out my life-light, 

Or help me to reach some desirable height, 

Now if you are just, my prayers you'll answer.' 

And ere long they all fully answered were; 

For 'twasn't long after that I met you, love. 



ISZORIA PAIXE. 



So I know my prayer was heard by Him above. 

And what thongh I'm dying now, everything must die, 

And all is well that ends well, say I. 

I reached my longed for Sveb,' just as 

The spider did, and must go like him, alas! 

I have struggled and had many a hard fall, 

Yet gained my Sveb,' like the spider on the wall. 

1 have suffered and tasted of the bitterest care. 

Of all of earth's sorrows I have had my share; 

Fate long led me through vales of darkest gloom, 

'Mong rocks and thorns where ne'er a flower did bloom, 

Yet I tried to keep my soul from stain, 

And still strove on a better path to gain ; 

Through all those years in God I did trust 

That He'd answer my prayers; for 'twas but just, 

Since I'd borne the sorrows that pressed with might, 

That He should lead me from darkness to light. 

And out of the dark vale into the sunny land. 

He led me ere long with an invisible hand ; 

To a beautifully smooth path He guided me. 

Never again a horrid rock or thorn to see. 

And though I suffered and tasted of bitter care. 

Though of earth's sorrows I had my full share, 

I am surrounded by luxuries, riches and love now; 

And though my life-lamp is burning very low, 

I'm thankful, very thankful, as I have explained. 

For that, like the spider, the desired web I gained. 

What though I long lived in misery and tears. 

It is all sweetened by these last seven years. 

Though I've suffered and had many a hard fall. 

Seven years of such happiness has sweetened it all. 

For since we've lived together these years over seven, 



ISZOIilA PAI.X/:. 

I've been as happy as they say angels are in heaven, 
And I would, could I do as 1 desire, 
Live my life over, for in such ecstacy to expire. 
Oh, what though I suffered and many times fell, 
I'm happy now, and all is well that ends well." 

XVIII. 

"I/ay hiia low, lay him low 

Neath the clover or the snow ; 
What cares he— he cannot know. 
I.ay him low ! " 

— Geo. H. lioker. 

''Do not lay lue in a vault when life has forsaken ; 

When I die, keep me till you're sure I cannor 'waken. 

Yes, keep me at home a week or so 

Till you're positive I'm dead, then lay me low. 

Lay me in a grave, deep, deep in the ground. 

And then make above me a little mound. 

And when summer comes, plant flowers above me, 

(Without asking, you'd do that, for you love me,) 

And, too, set vines and flowers in the urn, 

(That you'll place above me,) when spring does return. 

Carve my name, age, when I came and when loent — 

Put that and nought else on my monument. 

No verse, no words, to either praise or blame, 

But just my birth-time, death-time, age, and my name. 

None but you care when I sink to repose. 

Perhaps, the world'll say: 'To perdition she goes.' 

They neither know nor care how I've suffered and tried. 

When I die, 'tis to them but — an outcast died. 

As to those, I care not what they think ; 

But I ask of you, when in death I sink. 

To not ]>ut a word or verse or a |)hrase 



hSZOHIA PAiyjC. 

On inv inouumeiit, either to censure or praise. 
Siioukl you write that I were good, so and so, 
They'd but shir and question : *Eh, was she, though ?' 
So, when I'm dead and hiid under the sod, 
Let my fauhs and perfections rest witli you and God." 

In a deep narrow bed, Iszoria is at rest; 
And he lias fulfilled her every request. 

"Swcotly (locked with pearly clew 
The iiHiiiiinLX rose iiiuv blow, 
But, culd siiccrssiveii.'.ontiae hlasts 
May hiy its heuutios low." 

But storms no more harm her, no matter how they rav( 
She nor feels nor hears them as sleeping in the grave. 
He lives to an old age, and still loves her only, 
His heart is with her; his life-path is lonely. 
Often when grief seems strangling, he looks above. 
Asks Time to cut him down that he may meet his love. 
Yet, though he is sad, 'tis an exalting sadness. 
There is joy in such decj) sorrow. Yes, 

"Sweet the hours ol tribulation, 
When tlie heart can freely sijih, 
And the tear of resignation 
Twinltles in the mournful eye." 



Begun November 18, I,S84, and finished March 2il, 1885. 




